The Ends Don't Justify The Means!
by n1h1l4dr3m
Summary: Neal manages to push Peter's limits, using spectacular results in case closures to justify his actions. He manages to get himself in the crosshairs of dangerous criminals from his past, and Peter is worried for his safety. *No Slash.* FatherPeter!SonNeal. Language, hints at memories of abuse. Spanking. Little bit of hurt/comfort.
1. In which Neal gets a shock

**Author's note**:

Slightly AU, although I tried to stay as close to cannon as possible. The ages and timeline are as follows:

Neal took off for NYC around the age of 16/17, where he and Mozzie became fast friends. Neal got caught by Peter around the age of 20. Neal escaped from prison by 21, was recaptured, and later in the same year released into White Collar custody. Peter is in his mid 40s. I chose this AU timeline because this means that Peter really is old enough to be Neal's father. At the end of season 4, when Neal blurts out to Sam that "Peter is more of a father to me than you ever were!" I said I little "aww yisss!" because I ship fatherPeter!sonNeal (can you refer to a 'ship where it's nonsexual? Don't know if I've seen the term used that way….)

I started this little story when I was wrapping up season 3 and starting season 4. I made some jumps that I found later actually came to pass. Minor Spoilers for Season 5 Peter is the head of the White Collar division. Diana and Jones have both been promoted as well, heading up their own respective teams. Neal has yet to be indebted to The Dutchmen (he's in jail still), and he's still desperately trying to stay on the path of reformation. Assume Peter's promotion came without any of the Senator Pratt debacle, and that's the alternate universe where this story is nestled…

One final note: I am toying with doing a completely gen series that introduce Neal's backstory while he and Peter continue to solve new cases….but I haven't finished season 5 yet. Once I finish the rest of the season—and wrap up my Harry Potter stories (sincerest apologies, it's been one helluva year)—I will reassess all the White Collar questions regarding the personal history of the infamous Neal Caffrey. If they have not yet been answered, well, the plot bunnies might come roaring to life. Please let me know if a "Neal's History" series (sans spanking, I'd be completely cannon) is something you'd want to read.

Anyhow, that's where I'm coming from, enjoy this little story for what it is….Much thanks to M who asked me to write it. I enjoyed the father/son with a spanking scene challenge and I hope it exceeds your expectations

Reeeeaaaaly sorry I got long winded with this author's note. Let's begin, shall we?

* * *

Neal stepped off the elevators and into the bullpen, a jaunty saunter in his step. He flipped his fedora into his inbox and set his cup of coffee on the edge of his desk while quietly surveying the atmosphere. There was a quiet hum this morning; the agents seemed unusually tense.

"Diana! How was your weekend?" Neal slid into his chair, unbuttoning the bottom button on his suit jacket.

"Caffrey." Diana greeted him with barely a nod. She continued to flip frantically through the stack of loose papers on her desk.

Neal, brow wrinkling in suspicion, stood up, hoping for a better view of the jumbled papers Diana was determinedly shoving into various blue folders.

"All right! Let's go!" At the sound of Peter Burke's voice, Neal's gaze involuntarily snapped up to where his FBI 'handler' was standing, imposing, outside his office.

Diana stood and scooped up the mess of folders and papers. She hurried toward the conference room, joining the small cluster of the other agents in the White Collar Crimes Division. Neal followed, curious. It was unlike Peter to have a large case and not immediately call his confidential informant.

Neal surreptitiously flicked a paperclip at Jones' coffee, hoping to lighten the mood. Jones pointedly ignored him. Neal pulled another paperclip out of his pocket and after a second to aim, flicked the paperclip into Jones' coffee. He was rewarded with a snicker from Diana and a glare from Jones. Grinning, Neal pulled another paperclip from his pocket to continue his fusillade, but stilled when Peter walked into the room.

"What's up, boss?" Neal reached for a folder, and carefully tucked the paperclip over the stiff blue cover.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at Neal, as if to scold him for the paperclips. Neal smiled guiltily, earning an eye-roll from the exasperated agent. "Jones, go ahead." Peter motioned for his senior agent to begin the power point presentation.

Jones fumbled with the remote. A crisp, color portrait suddenly filled the screen.

"Fuck!" Neal froze, eyes widening. He hadn't even realized he'd cursed aloud. Peter, however, noticed. Peter noticed everything.

Jones took a deep breath and started on his case details. "Saint Louis native, Frank Ammon, was recently seen casing the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He's on their no-access list." Jones glanced at his notes. "Given that he attempted stealing one of their Matisse paintings a few years ago, this isn't a surprise."

Peter was watching Neal, expecting him to interject a witty comment or show up Jones' level of knowledge regarding the thief. However, Neal had hastily covered his initial shock with a tight swallow and was keeping his face schooled to stillness. He was pouring over the blue folder, and praying that Peter would not ask him to consult on this case.

Any other case. Any other suspect. But Neal couldn't do this—he couldn't face Ammon again.

"Which painting?" Diana asked, momentarily distracting Peter from his study of Neal.

"Um…." Jones hurried flipped through his notes. "I think it was 'Green Stripe?' Does that matter?" He clicked a button the remote, and the screen changed to a blurry security footage video. Peter gave a slow nod when Neal finally opened his mouth to contribute.

"Green Stripe was of Mattise's wife. He probably tried to steal The Young Sailor Number Two. And yes. It matters. Ammon collects art of pretty, young men." Neal had spoken out of reflex, almost against his own wishes—he didn't want to explain how he knew Ammon's tastes. He didn't want to feel Peter's heavy gaze as he analyzed and categorized this new information about Neal's past.

Jones glared at being one-upped on his own case. He mashed the remote again, hoping to cut off any further art lecturing by Neal. "Okay, so, what we have here is a list of known associates—"

Neal stood up suddenly, cutting of Jones mid-sentence. "Excuse me, I'll be right back. I need to get, that thing, in my desk, just a sec…." Neal threaded his way through the agents and chairs and around the giant conference table, mumbling excuses. He tilted his head so that his chocolate colored hair would shield his eyes from Peter, as he slid by his boss. Peter's hand shot out, but he stopped himself from grabbing Neal's elbow. He let him leave, watching him with heavy concern until Neal stepped onto the elevator.

Jones, at this point resigned to continual interruptions, continued his case file summary. "Ammon is staying at the Mark."

"A few blocks away from the Met?" It was a question, but Diana's tone made it a statement.

"Yes. So far he hasn't done anything except, perhaps, skip out on his parole. We're waiting on the report from Saint Louis PD."

Peter cleared his throat, shaking his head to distract himself from his CI's suspicious behavior. "No, we've spoken with his parole officer. He's been given special dispensation due to a death in the family. Still, he's met with several known criminal associates, and we believe he's planning something big."

Jones, relieved that his boss wasn't angry with his haphazardly prepared presentation, added, "Yes, and the Met is having a Matisse exhibit this week. Both sailor paintings will be there." He held up his phone, and added with a tentative smile, "Google."

Peter took a gulp of his coffee. "How do you want to handle it, Jones?"

"I say bring him in for questioning. While we pick him up from the hotel we can plant a bug, see if we can't get any information that way."

"Direct, aggressive, I like it." Diana closed her folder. "Should I go collect him, boss?"

"Wait for the warrant; I want to be able to search his room when you get him. But you and Jones may each pick a team and start surveillance, one at the Met, and one take the van to watch the hotel." Peter tossed his folder on the conference table and walked out off the conference room listening to his agents bicker over who would get stuck in the van, and who would investigate the Met's security. Peter stepped into his office and picked up his phone. After a few seconds of thought he decided to dial.

"Yes, I'd like the information for tracking anklet 0194, this is Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke, badge number 58835." He was silent while the agent processed his request. He muttered quick thanks, and hung up the phone. A glance at the clock determined he'd be taking an early lunch today. He said as much to his secretary, and headed for the elevators.

* * *

Peter knocked once, politely, despite the growing ball of anxiety in his gut. After a few seconds, he knocked again, this time declaring, "Neal! I know you're in there."

Peter smacked the door with the heel of his hand.

No response, despite his increased volume. "June gave me a key!"

The door opened quietly. Neal attempted his infamous conman smile. He hoped he could hold it together long enough to convince Peter that nothing was wrong. "C'mon in, Peter. Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, water, as we're both on the clock." Peter said pointedly.

Neal grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and tossed it to Peter. "Look, I'm sorry for bailing. Some stuff came up…" his voice trailed off as he watched Peter's expression change.

Worry and anger clouded Peter's face. With a sigh, Peter growled, "Neal. God dammit. Why do you have to lie to me? Why can't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wr—" He choked on his denial as Peter made a sudden movement with his hand. Neal swallowed and scampered back, keeping the table between him and Peter. Peter's eyebrows shot up so high they might have crawled into his hairline. He had only been reaching out to set his bottle of water on the table.

"Okay. You have two options for the rest of today. You may stay at June's—house arrest, Neal, I mean it—or you can come back into work. Neither of those options require any explanation from you. Whatever is bothering you, I'm going to let you have your secrets. But, if they continue to impact work, like this morning, Neal, I want answers." Peter took a step toward Neal. With his trained agent's eye for detail, Peter noticed small changes in Neal. His breathing sped up, his hands momentarily clenched at his side, and his eyes did a quick dart around the room before Neal slid his easy-going mask into place. He established eye-contact with his boss and gave a tentative smile.

Peter pointed his finger at Neal's chest, and added, "And I **will **get those answers, I promise."

Neal, silent for once, simply nodded.

"Well, what's it gonna be?" Peter fished his keys out of his pocket.

"Work." Neal took a deep breath, and willed himself toward the front door—even though that meant stepping closer to Peter. The sudden reappearance of Frank Ammon was causing Neal to have flashbacks. Seeing Peter angry had kicked Neal's fight-or-flight responses into overdrive. He had to act like nothing was wrong, or else Peter would start digging—and Neal did not want to have the conversation that would ensue when he learned exactly what Frank had done.


	2. In which Peter has some questions

Peter stepped off the elevator, and Neal followed. Peter was immediately accosted by various agents wanting to give their reports to the senior agent in charge. Neal sank into his seat as his friend handled the clamor. Neal sighed, and reached for the blue folder labeled, "AMMON, FRANK H." He picked up a pen and began adding his own personal notes to Diana's haphazardly collected data.

They were seriously uninformed about how dangerous this man really was. He began doodling, and soon a near-perfect image of Ammon emerged on the paper. It was an angry Ammon, brow creased in rage and spittle flying at the corner of his lips. It was Ammon as 13-year-old Neal remembered him.

Jones was the one who caught sight of Neal's drawing. He knew immediately that Peter would want to see it. "Hey, I'm gonna confiscate all your paperclips, Caffrey!" Jones smiled as he greeted Neal.

"You need some defensive tactics, there, Jones." Neal reached for a rubber band, and threatened to shoot it at the senior agent. "Hey! Hey. This isn't an office war! I'm here to ask for your expertise. Can you look over this? It's some mortgage fraud, but the names aren't popping up in any database. Just want some second eyes on it." While Neal was glancing through the new folder, Jones carefully slipped the paper with his artwork free from his desk. Having a known thief around the office had taught Jones a thing or two about slight-of-hand.

"No problem, Jones. Give me a half hour, and I'll get this back to you." Neal was eager to push Ammon out of his mind. So eager that mortgage fraud looked appealing.

After Neal was properly distracted, Jones made a beeline for Peter's office. He hastily shoved the paper across his boss' desk.

"Oh. Whoa." Peter looked up, and saw the worry in Jones' dark eyes. He had no doubt it mirrored the look on his own face.

Any future conversation was cut short as a gleeful Diana frog-marched a furious and non-compliant Frank Ammon through the bullpen and into one of the interrogation rooms. Her two probationary agents followed, looking proud of their boss. Peter and Jones looked down at the scene unfolding. Most of the other agents were crowded around the interrogation audio/video monitoring screens, while others had hovered around the pane of one-way glass. Peter noticed that Neal hadn't moved from his desk. He was paler than usual, and attempting to focus on his work.

"It's your case, Jones, are you going to supervise Diana?" Peter asked as he walked down the stairs.

"She's just as skilled as I am, boss." Jones stopped, though, when he saw Diana storm out of the interrogation room. "Shit. Maybe I should get down there."

Peter laughed as Jones took the stairs two-at-time. He could hear Diana's ranting, though, and he heaved a sigh of irritation.

"That lying sack of shit says he won't talk unless it's to 'little agent Danny!' He won't lawyer up, which would be, frankly, less frustrating than demanding to see agents we don't have! Danny?! Who the fuck is that?!" Diana was gesturing wildly, but ended with her hands on her hips. Jones thought she was about to stomp her foot like a teenage girl. He'd never admit that out loud, though—his sense of self-preservation was excellent.

"I'll take it from here, Diana. Cut the video and audio display and the rest of you _go do something productive!" _Peter's voice raised into a slight crescendo. The bullpen froze as they processed their senior agent in charge's orders, and then burst into activity as everyone hurried to comply.

"Neal! Get over here! **Now!**" Peter headed toward the interrogation room door. He didn't bother checking to see if his young CI had begun moving, or not. He knew Neal would obey him in this. His tone of voice commanded an immediate response.

"No, no, no, no." Neal was muttering as he tried to catch up with Peter. He darted the last few steps and put his hand on the door to stop his boss. "No, no, no, Peter, no, please…" Neal's blue eyes were huge as he looked at Peter with worry.

Peter gently grabbed Neal's wrist and slid his hand from the door. "It's gonna be okay, kid. I promise. But we're going to go in there and see what he wants. He meant you, when he called you Danny, right?"

"You don't understand!" Neal was trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice, but he felt his control slipping.

Peter fished Neal's drawing out of his jacket pocket. "I understand enough."

Neal snatched the drawing and crumpled it in his fist. "No, Agent, he's going to tell you…" Neal's voice trailed off as he tried in vain to regain some sense of self-control. Peter looked shocked at Neal's use of the title "agent."

"You can't believe him. Okay? Please!" Neal ran his shaky fingers through his hair. He hated Ammon. Hated that he made him loose his control, hated the sick feeling he got in his stomach when he saw his face, hated that Peter was going to know about his past, hated that after all these years running this nightmare would finally catch him again.

"Okay. I'll let you tell me what he said that was truth, and what were lies after this." Peter patted Neal's shoulder comfortingly. "Okay?"

Neal nodded. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mask was firmly in place. He was once again the charming Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire. He ready to face his worst demon.

"I'm Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke, this is—" Peter was cut-off by the man sitting in cuffs across the desk. He looked to be mid-to-late fifties, but looked extremely physically fit and strong despite his salt-and-pepper hair growing uncomfortably thin on top of his head.

"I know who he is. Hello, Little Danny Boy." Ammon lifted his wrists. "Care to get me out of these, Agent Danny? Never thought I'd see you on that side of the law." Ammon smirked.

"No, you will remain cuffed for the time being." Peter attempted to regain control of the interrogation. "We have been in contact with the Saint Louis PD. You have 48 hours left on your parole liberty. We also know you've been casing the Met."

"They have some beautiful artwork." Ammon glanced at Peter and shrugged. "Tell me, Danny, how does Peter treat you?"

"With respect. What's your interest in the Met?" Neal smiled, charmingly, at Ammon.

Ammon turned to Peter and observed, "He strikes me as a belt type of guy."

"No, he's not. The Met, Frank, you're going after the pair of the Young Sailor paintings, right?"

"Oh, he's not? I bet he uses—" Neal interrupted Frank, loudly, to cut off his musings.

"Frank. Please. I'd like to get you out of the cuffs, out of my office, and quite honestly, out of my city. So, what's your interest in the Met?"

Ammon sighed and turned to Peter. "Such impatience and rudeness with this one. I see you haven't had more success than Ellen, in forcing that out of him, either." Ammon turned back to Neal. "I'm allowed to visit the Met. Names expire from their no-access list every three years. I'm enjoying real art, considering Saint Louis doesn't have the variety offered up here. If you think I'm going to steal it, good luck catching me. I learned fifteen years ago the value of a good alibi and eye-witness testimony. I'm sure my entire fucking family will let you know I'm dealing with the funeral and arrangements of my dear grandmother, God rest her soul. I'll be dealing with those arrangements whenever this theft does occur. Now, if that's all, I think I'll be going now. You don't have anything to hold me." Ammon tossed Peter the cuffs that he had expertly picked and stood.

"Come see me, sometime, Dannyboy. I've missed you." Ammon reached out and patted Neal's cheek, and then walked out of the interrogation room.

"Are you going to just let him go!?" Neal looked at Peter with exasperation.

"Yeah, he's right. We don't have anything on him. But Diana planted two, maybe three bugs on him and in his hotel room. If there's something to get, we'll get it, plus we have the wiretap approval. He practically just confessed to having accomplices and plotting to steal the art." Peter opened the door and motioned for Neal. "C'mon. We're having that conversation. You choose the location, but we're having it."


	3. In which Peter gets some answers

**Author's Note: **

You are so lovely, dear readers! Thank so much for leaving me wonderful feedback. I was a little nervous about a spanking story, but, ahem, apparently M and I are not the only ones who enjoy them!

No, Frank is not a nice guy, he's not good for Neal in any sort of fashion whatsoever. This chapter contains lots of whump and angst (It also contains a drunk Neal). There are vague references to child abuse. It's pretty much the last time it'll come up (directly) in the story, I promise. Hang on, though, next chapter has plenty of fatherly, loving Peter fluff. (I mean, there's that here, in this chapter...but there's even more to come.)

Thank you again for the lovely notes!

* * *

Neal grabbed his annotated file on Ammon off his desk, and walked to the elevators. Peter followed, patiently.

While waiting for the doors to open, Neal told Peter, "My place, that's where I want to have the conversation."

"Okay. Your place. Let's go." They stepped onto the elevator, and Peter pushed the button for the underground parking structure. Neal remained silent for the rest of the elevator ride, through the parking garage, and for the entire ride home. He didn't even argue when Peter turned the radio to a talk-show. Peter, determined to wait on Neal, kept his thoughts and worries to himself. He had a million questions swirling through his head.

After they walked into June's house, Neal motioned for Peter to sit down. He got out a wine glass and began to uncork a bottle. He stopped after cutting the capsule [the foil wrapper], and grabbed a bottle of whiskey instead. He shrugged and poured a healthy dose into the stemmed glass.

Peter, by now growing very impatient, resisted the urge to launch directly into questioning Neal. Neal finally walked over to the table. He slid the blue folder to Peter. "That's everything I know."

Peter didn't open the folder. He watched Neal take a large gulp of whiskey. He set the glass down, rolling the stem between his fingers. He kept his eyes carefully away from Peter.

"I'd rather you tell me, than read a report." Peter's voice was gentle and full of concern.

"Can't." Neal grabbed the glass and polished off the alcohol in two large gulps. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another unreasonably large serving.

"Whoa. Neal. Slow down! That's like, six shots in that glass. I'll read it, okay?"

"Yup. That's why I'm drinking. So I won't mind that you've read it." Peter shot Neal a very disapproving glare, but Neal was holding his goblet aloft and studying the way the light glinted off the amber liquid.

With a sigh, Peter began reading Neal's notes. There were plenty of small additions in Neal's beautiful handwriting throughout the report: added details of Ammon's biography, additions to the lists of aliases, locations, and suspected crimes. However, when Peter flipped the page containing the photographs and maps showing their suspect's whereabouts in New York City, he was momentarily stunned to see a full page in Neal's tiniest print. Before reading, Peter glanced up at Neal, who was now pouring his third glass of liquor. Vowing to read quickly so Neal wouldn't have any excuse to continue his mission to get obliterated-drunk, Peter picked up the paper.

_Frank Ammon is a dangerous man. I don't think you agents really get it. __Frank Ammon keeps a hide-out for the young men under his 'care.' It's filled with fascinating books and documentary movies. It's a mini school, of sorts, where he teaches them sleight of hand and conman tricks. He encourages them to drop out of school, because "they can learn more on their own." Really it's because that means he's the only adult in their life—easier to control them that way. Frank teaches them basic crime skills like pickpocketing and the fine points of lockpicking, how to disable security cameras or to avoid them all together, how to disable alarm systems. The boys get really good at watching ATMs for people's PINs and then pick-pocketing their wallets. A quick phone call to the bank, answer a security question—information usually contained in the wallet anyway like the name of a pet or a child—and you can authorize a one-time ATM withdraw for several thousand dollars. He owns a large warehouse in downtown Saint Louis, North Union Blvd. It's several stories, and has great security, and the boys won't let you in if they can help it. Warrant, or not. It's his criminal academy, a giant tree-fort of sorts for the boys, freedom from parental rules and school authority._

Peter fished his phone out of his pocket and texted Diana and Jones, "Call SLPD, tell them to check warehouses on N Union Blvd. Ammon may have a small army of runaways under his care. If found, the kids are probably truant and suspects in a host of petty thefts." He kept reading, as anxiety filled his gut.

_He teaches them all about guns, how to shoot. They're really good-can do Annie Oakley tricks. On occasion he lends his boys out to help the local gang transport their heroin._

Peter pulled his phone out and sent another text, "Advise SLPD kids are armed and dangerous, may be involved in localized gang and drug wars. Possible to use their testimony to implicate Frank in parole violation."

_Around fifteen to twenty boys filter in and out on a rotating basis, but he keeps three or four close to him at all times. We're his favorites. He teaches us how to manipulate the other boys into helping us pull off petty crimes. He uses a large amount of psychological power to get the boys to do what he wants. He convinces these young men that he's the only one who loves them. He's the only one who knows what's best for them. He starts out providing an environment devoid of all authority and filled with freedoms that appeal to a 12, 13 year old, and when they're firmly under his thumb, he devolves into abuse of all kinds. He's physically abusive when his rages strike, although they are rare. But by the time the boys realize what a monster he is, they have nowhere else to go. They're convinced no one loves them anymore, just Frank, and no one cares, no one understands them. He has a masterful control of psychological manipulation. He tells us it's not bad, we wanted it, it can feel good, it's because he cares for us and loves us. Besides, after what I did, who would want us? We're alone._

Peter wondered if Neal realized he had switched to first person with the sudden use of "we" and "I."

_Basically, what you guys at the FBI aren't realizing is that Frank never gets his hands dirty. He manipulates these young men into breaking the law for him, making him money. If he's going to rob the Met here, he'll send someone he's controlling to do it for him. He's the man behind the curtain_.

Peter closed the file and looked across the table at Neal, trying to absorb everything he had written. There was about an inch of whiskey left in the bottle, and Neal had his head cradled in his arms on the table. Peter wasn't sure if he was asleep, until Neal sat up and reached for the bottle. "Oh, no. No you don't. You're cutoff." Peter stood up and moved the bottle out of his reach.

Neal glared at Peter and continued his futile reaching for the bottle, arms stretched out over the table. His fingers made a scrabbling motion and he made a whining noise in protest. "I was saving that last bit for when you started asking questions. That'd be now, since you're done reading."

Peter rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid, let's get you in bed." He reached for Neal's arm.

"I'm not drunk yet!" Neal tried to wave Peter off, but Peter was faster, and lifted Neal to his feet by his elbow.

Peter's voice was patient, but brooked no argument. "You're definitely drunk. Get up."

Peter released his grip on Neal's elbow, but he started wobbling. Peter held onto Neal and compassionately led him away from the table. He spoke gently, "C'mon. Don't want to ruin that beautiful suit of yours."

"Yeah, this one is a Canali!" Neal began loosening his tie.

"That sounds like an Italian dessert." Peter gently steered Neal toward the bed on the other side of the loft.

"Not a cannoli! A Canali!" Neal corrected his boss with a snort of derision as he slid out of the jacket. Neal let it fall unceremoniously to the ground.

After Neal sat down, carefully, on the edge of the bed, Peter headed to the back closet. He retrieved a pair of paisley print flannel pants—the print and color made Peter raise his eyebrows in amusement-which he handed to Neal. Giving his charge some semblance of privacy, Peter rooted around the kitchen for a large mixing bowl. He also collected two ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

"Neal! Can I turn around, are you dressed?"

"Yup." Peter felt himself smile to see Neal sprawled across the bed. He still had one shoe on—how he managed to get his pants off and his pajamas on over the shoe was a mystery. Peter set the bowl on the nightstand and reached for Neal's ankle. His fingers lightly brushed over the tracker as he moved to untie the shoe.

"You gonna take Candy off?" Neal looked blurrily down at Peter.

"Candy?" Peter pried the shoe off, and slipped off his sock.

"Yeah, that's her name. The tracker."

"Candy? No, she stays, Neal. Just your shoe." Peter set the shoe down next to its pair and moved from the foot of the bed toward Neal's head. "Look at me."

Neal looked at Peter, who was looking sternly down at his CI. Neal tried to match Peter's serious expression. He wrinkled his eyebrows and tried to force his mouth into a serious line, but ended up with a goofy pucker instead. "You've got your angry serious face, Peter!" Neal started giggling.

"Oh, God." Peter muttered to himself while Neal's giggles grew more hysterical.

"Listen! Neal! Look at me." Neal finally stopped giggling. Peter proffered the pills and the bottle of water. "Drink this, and take these."

Neal struggled to sit up, and ended half-propped on his elbow. "M'kay." He swallowed the pills and chugged most of the water. Peter retrieved the water bottle from Neal and held up the large mixing bowl. "Look, I couldn't find a small trashcan. When you throw up, you'll be glad this is here. Got it?"

"Throw up in the bowl, got it. Heeey! I won't throw up." Neal leaned back on his pillows. "Prob'ly have a bad hangover though."

"Yeah, that's the least of your worries." Peter reached for Neal's shoulder. "Hey, sleep on your stomach or side, okay?"

"Kay." Neal rolled groggily over and clutched at his pillow.

Peter rolled his eyes and gently patted Neal's arm. He collected the various clothing articles that Neal had strewn across the room. He walked into the extravagant closet and began carefully hanging up Neal's beloved suit, and tossed everything else into the laundry hamper. Peter walked out and noticed Neal was watching him. "You okay, Neal?"

Neal didn't say anything, so Peter headed back toward the bedroom enclave. Neal just watched Peter with wide eyes.

"Are you okay, Neal? Did you want to talk about anything before I go?" Peter sat on the edge of the bed.

"Nope, want the past to stay buried. I buried it y'knooow. But I s'pose you want to know things. You always want to know things. You're the architecss...hht, arti-ket, uh, you're the Architect. You're gonna dig up answers." Neal's voice was starting to slur just a little, but after stumbling over Peter's nickname he spoke with drunken deliberation.

Peter smiled and said "Yeah, I'm kinda curious about one thing."

"Never just one thing with you." Neal raised his eyebrows loftily. The smirk was ruined by the fact that he was clutching his pillow so tightly. "Ugh. Room's spinning."

Peter's smile bloomed into a wide grin. "I bet it is. What did Ammon mean that I'm a belt guy?"

"Nope. Might get ideas." Neal tried to turn away from Peter, but got caught in the blankets.

"We're bringing him back for questioning. I'll just ask him myself." Neal immediately tried to sit up, but only succeeded in panic-stricken flailing. Peter almost felt bad for lying to his young CI.

Peter gently pushed Neal back against the pillows. Neal struggled for a few seconds and finally lay back in defeat. Peter tried to hide his grin because Neal was definitely beginning to slur his words around. He sounded drunk, but Peter thought for the amount of alcohol he'd consumed he seemed in pretty good control of his faculties.

"He was asking how you control me. Ellen use'ta spank me. He figgered you've gotta be soooome sort of 'thority figger, too." Neal blushed bright red and tried to turn over onto his stomach. There's no way he could let Peter see how much the idea of a spanking appealed to him. It was security, forgiveness, boundaries, every sense of safety he ever had with Ellen had been solidified when his ten-year-old self had been flipped over her lap for a spanking. Peter had been an equally impressive force in Neal's life—security, boundaries, he was even the only person who managed to send him to jail, so there were definitely consequences with Peter. He didn't have to run anymore, with Peter. The idea of Peter spanking him caused an involuntary shudder to ripple through Neal's body.

"Did Ammon ever hurt you?" Peter gently placed his heavy hand on Neal's shoulder.

"Yeah." Neal mumbled into the pillow.

"Did he spank you?"

"What kinda question is that! He didn't care 'nuff to spank me. Spanking isn't hurting! 'mean, it hurts, but it's caring! Ellen never 'bused me. I think if someone spanked me it would simpul, uh, simpulfy, uh, simpul'fly things now. Like Candy." Neal kicked his leg with the tracking anklet for emphasis, causing the blanket to puff up and tangle further around his legs. He continued to mumble, "Jail threats'r useleeeess, tracker's useleeeess. Spankin'd be more 'fective."

Neal felt his face and ears turn bright red when he realized when he was telling Peter. He rapidly tried to change back to the original question. Neal seemed to momentarily sober up, although he spoke with a slow deliberation. "Yes, Frank hurt me. He did things that—" Neal's voice started to break. He took a deep breath, but couldn't continue.

Neal buried his face in his pillow and let the sobs quietly escape him, as a secret he'd kept for a decade threatened to burst out of him.


	4. In which El gives some advice

Peter sat in stunned silence next to his crying CI. Suddenly, all the information in Neal's handwritten dossier on Ammon clicked into place. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how this man hurt Neal. Peter vowed to see him behind bars for the rest of his life-or dead, whichever. When it came to seeing his family hurt, Peter would tear the enemy limb-to-limb.

"Oh. Shit. Neal." Peter reached forward to wrap Neal in his arms, but wasn't sure if he'd welcome that much physical contact. He tentatively rested his hand on Neal's back, and when he didn't flinch or move away, Peter began rubbing small circles on his charge's back. After a second, Neal made a scrabbling motion toward the night-stand. Realizing what was happening, Peter calmly handed him the mixing bowl. Neal rose up on his hands and knees and purged the contents of his stomach. Peter pressed his hand against Neal's forehead, and held him close with one arm around waist while he vomited. His body shook as all the awful memories and the whiskey tried to expel itself from his stomach. Peter quietly handed him the water bottle so Neal could swish out his mouth.

Peter momentarily set the bowl on the nightstand and tucked the blankets around Neal again. He smoothed his dark hair back out of his face. "I'll be right back."

Peter took the foul-smelling bowl and emptied it in the sink. "Alcohol vomit," he thought to himself, "is the worst smell ever." He rinsed and dried the bowl, and brought it back to the nightstand—just in case. Peter tugged gently on Neal's shoulder, until he finally looked up at him. "Here, you threw up your aspirin, take these again."

Neal rubbed at his watery eyes and took the pills and new water bottle from Peter. He drank half and then curled himself into a tight ball with his back to his boss. Peter thought he looked even younger than his twenty-two years. Peter retrieved the bottle from Neal's hand, picked up the cap from the pillow, and put it on the overly crowded nightstand.

"Neal, do you want me to stay, or go?" Peter gently gripped Neal's shoulder. Neal shrugged, and pulled the blanket up higher. Peter could barely see his eyes peering over the blanket.

"Okay, how about this: I stay until you tell me to go."

Neal nodded, and closed his eyes. Peter, still unsure if his presence was welcome, decided that if Neal wanted him to leave, he'd say so. Until then, though, Peter decided he'd do his best to make Neal feel secure. He sat down on the bed and protectively rubbed Neal's back. It didn't take long for the emotionally spent Neal to fall asleep. When Peter heard his breathing regulate into slow, deep breaths, he carefully stood and made his way to the door. As an after thought, he headed back to the large easel in the corner of the room. He quietly lifted it up and turned it so it would be among the first things Neal saw when waking. He took the beautiful sketch of the city's skyline and set it on the table. On a new sheet, Peter wrote in oversized letters:

Neal,

Everything will be okay. I promise. Thank you for trusting me. No one will know about Frank unless you want to tell them. I expect to see you at work tomorrow. I don't care if you've got a hangover!"

Peter hesitated, then added one last line:

"I love you, son."

He set the charcoal down, and glared at the smudges on his fingers. Peter dusted his hand off on his trousers as he headed out the door.

* * *

After an amazing dinner—he really had married up, Peter knew—he and El decided to take Satchmo for a walk. The weather was perfect-not too warm, not too cold. Elizabeth could tell something was bothering her husband. Over the years he had spent chasing Neal, he developed what she referred to as "The Neal Look." As Neal and Peter's relationship progressed and their trust developed, she'd seen less and less of it. Neal had been such a huge part of Peter's life, on and off again for the past decade nearly, that Elizabeth realized Peter considered Neal a son. And she was okay with that.

A few blocks into the walk and Elizabeth finally squeezed Peter's hand. "Hey, hon."

"Hon." Peter smiled down at his wife.

"What did Neal do now?"

"We may be chasing the guy who convinced him, and a whole gang of other young men, to drop out of school and pursue crime. Neal kind of had a break down, I guess."

"Oh, poor Neal. We should've had him over for dinner!" El's mothering instincts kicked into hyperdrive.

"No, he wasn't feeling well." Peter said wryly as he remembered exactly how much alcohol he downed earlier.

"Okay, well, you tell him I hope he feels better." El could sense that wasn't all of what was bothering her husband, but she let it go and tugged on Satchmo's leash, and the Burke family finished their walk. It wasn't until much later, curled up on the couch while watching Jeopardy! that Peter finally brought up the last little bit of Neal's conversation.

"El, what's your dad's opinion on spanking?"

Elizabeth sat up and looked at her husband curiously. Peter added, "You know, as a psychologist."

"Well, I was spanked as a kid. Maybe it was more culturally accepted then, when we were kids, though. Um, I suppose he'd say it is the most effective way to discourage future misbehavior. It provides boundaries and consequences, for the child. And that those two things translate into safety and love for a child. Children, young ones especially, crave consistency. If administered correctly, the kid will feel respected, loved and forgiven and won't want to get in trouble again. I could call him, if you want?" El reached for the bowl of popcorn and studied her husband.

"It was definitely more culturally acceptable." Peter smiled at his wife. "I was spanked too, you know, at home and at school."

"What brought this on?" El passed the popcorn to her husband, and curled up against his chest.

Instead of answering her question, Peter asked another, "When is a child too old to spank?"

El laughed. "Um, my dad would probably still spank me if he thought I deserved it, and we're in our 40s! He'd probably say 'when they stop acting in a way to deserve it.'"

"Mine wouldn't hesitate either, I suppose." Peter wrapped his arms around his wife. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and smiled. "I love you, honey."

"Hon." El spoke their shorthand.

"Oh, El. I told Neal I wouldn't tell anyone, but this suspect we're chasing abused him. I think, if I can piece things together based on what he's told me in the past, he, Ellen and his mother moved to Saint Louis when he was about 3 or 4. This guy recruited young boys—12, 13 year olds. He taught them how to pickpocket, to pick locks, you know, petty street theft. I think he taught Neal the basics of conning, because he out-conned Mozzie when they first met." Elizabeth listened to her husband's rambling thoughts. She recognized this as being one of the moments when he needed to process the information, so she hit the mute button on the remote and let him talk. It helped him organize his thoughts.

"This man acted as a surrogate father to him. When we brought him in for questioning, he asked Neal if I spanked him." Peter shifted, a little embarrassed at the memory of the conversation.

"Want me to get you a coffee?" Elizabeth offered, wondering if her husband was ready to talk about this yet.

"In a minute. When Neal and I were talking this afternoon, I asked him about it. Neal said the spanking comment was derisive. As if he was submitting to someone else's authority and it was painful. I guess?" Peter tried to understand how Neal explained it to him earlier, and relate that to his wife. He clarified, "Ammon taught the boys in his street gang that they didn't have to answer to any authority."

Elizabeth immediately understood, "Oh. So it was an insult to Neal, to imply that you are an authority in his life. That's why he asked if you spank Neal?"

"Yeah, that's basically what Neal said. But then he said 'spanking is caring' and that it would 'simplify a lot of things if someone spanked him now.'" Peter was obviously uncomfortable just thinking about the conversation, so Elizabeth stood to start the pot of coffee. He needed a minute alone, El sensed. As his wife left the room, Peter sighed into his hands, and then ran them, frustrated, through his hair.

"Want a scoop of icecream in your coffee?" El called from the kitchen.

Peter stood and wandered into the kitchen. "Yes, please." El sat the two mugs down and rummaged in the freezer. She emerged with a small pint of vanilla.

"Well, once you solve the case, why don't you just ask him?"

"Ask him what?"

Elizabeth gave her husband a disapproving look. "Ask him if he wants you to spank him when he does something he shouldn't."

"It's not that simple, El." Peter picked up his coffee and poked at the floating icecream with his spoon.

"Sure it is. He just told you he craves boundaries in his life." El rested her head against Peter's shoulder, and then picked up her mug. "C'mon. Let's finish Jeopardy! before we miss the final question."

* * *

**Author's Note**:

I love how concerned everyone is for Peter to be a gentle, loving, father figure when he spanks Neal. Believe me...I see him that way too, don't worry. He's not a belt kinda guy! I promise. I'll also try to stop beating Neal up, too much. I like whumping on him, though...

So, if I do write more White Collar stories, ya'll want them to be spanking fics and not gen? Is that what I'm understanding? haha.

I did want to respond to the Guest who left me such an awesome review. I appreciate the feedback. I know that in the show Neal's natural childishness works, but I honestly had no idea he was 37. My "head cannon" has him in his twenties, with Peter in his 40s. I kept it that way for my stories because Neal as middle aged just seemed weird.

Thank you guys for all the feedback and views and everyone who's following my story or marked it as a favorite-and I'm not even finished with it yet!-that means a lot to me.


	5. In which Mozzie delivers bad news

Neal woke up, disoriented. He sat up, and was relieved that the room was not, in fact, spinning. He must have thrown up most of the whiskey before his body had a chance to absorb enough of it to give him a hangover. Neal felt his face flush when he remembered vomiting. Neal remembered the feeling of Peter's palm pressed against his forehead; it had made him like he was a little kid again. He had felt cared for in Peter's hands, even though he'd brought his sickness upon himself.

He glanced at the clock. It was 3 am. As he stumbled groggily to the bathroom, he tried to remember what he'd said to Peter. On his way back, with a cursory stop at the refrigerator for more water, he noticed his easel had been moved. He sat back down on his bed, and turned on the lamp on his nightstand. He smiled when he read Peter's note.

Still, Neal was a little worried that he couldn't remember exactly what he'd said to Peter. He'd been in an emotionally vulnerable state, talking about a very traumatic part of his childhood. Frank Ammon was largely the reason Neal had gone to such great lengths to entirely erase his childhood. Neal turned off the lights and he grabbed his phone to send a small text to Mozzie.

"Sry so late. Frank Ammon is in town, staying Mark, gonna rob Met, Matisse's Sailors. Any info from your network would be appreciated."

Neal stretched out on the bed, and flipped through his phone to set an alarm for the morning. His phone beeped at him, and his eyes widened as he read the note from his longtime best friend.

"Is that why Keller's in town?"

Neal immediately dialed his best friend. "Fuck! Moz! Why didn't you tell me this as soon as you heard?"

"Because I was busy liquidating known product that Keller wanted, and then hightailing it to my safe house!"

"A heads up would've been nice." Neal tried not to sound angry, but, dammit. Keller being out of prison and on the streets again was huge. He'd been one of the boys in Ammon's gang. If he was here, things were definitely about to go sideways.

"You had the Suit at your house. I figured that was enough protection. I'm at Thursday. If you need me send Estelle. I'm going off grid, this phone call will be my last until I get the all clear."

"Okay, Moz. Call if you run out of wine or cheese. I'll stop by."

Neal lay in the dark and debated calling Peter. It was a lose-lose. If he called and woke him up he'd be pissed it was so late. If he waited until morning, he'd be pissed Neal was 'keeping secrets.' Neal decided to let him sleep. He was more fun to tease when he wasn't tired. He did call Jones, though, as he was the lead agent and this was his case. Neal thought it was a good enough compromise.

He had clearly woken Jones from a deep sleep. "Hmrhgh?" was about the extent of coherency Neal got through the phone.

"Hi, Jones, it's Neal, sorry to wake you. I just got word that Ammon is working with Matthew Keller. He's in town." Neal smiled as he heard Jones sit up and flick on the light. Obviously that had woken him up the rest of the way.

"Fuck! Have you told Peter?"

"No. I didn't want to be the one to wake him."

"But you woke me?" Jones grumbled. Based on the background noises, it sounded to Neal like he was getting dressed.

"Well, you're the senior agent on the case."

"I'm heading into the office. I'll see you there."

"Was that an order?"

"No, but I am telling Peter you tried to keep this news from him, if you don't show up." Jones smirked into the phone.

"Oh that's low."

"Bring some Starbucks. You owe me a cup."

Neal flopped backwards on his bed. "You're such an ass, Jones."

"A café mocha with two extra shots of espresso. Venti."

"I'll see you in twenty." Neal hung up and made a noise of exasperation at his ceiling.

After a quick shower, Neal had to admit that going to sleep around six in the evening meant that waking up at three in the morning hadn't left him overly exhausted. And, some Starbucks would start the obnoxiously early morning off right. He fished a few paperclips out of his Canali suit pocket and headed off to get some coffee. If Jones was going to be so prissy about his coffee, he shouldn't send a known prankster to bring him a cup. In fact, Neal smiled to himself, he'd tell the barista to write "Paperclip" on Jones' cup.

* * *

Peter walked into the bullpen a little surprised at the early morning chaos, even though he knew something was amiss because there was a police car parked in front of his house that morning. He normally had a few minutes to himself—it was his routine to arrive early. Making coffee, sorting files, sifting through emails—small tasks that he was able to complete before his agents filtered in and the workload started. He glanced around, and was surprised to see Neal, Jones, and Diana were crowded around a whiteboard. Neal, Peter assumed it was Neal, anyway, had completed a Known Associates list and it appeared they had begun surveillance. He made it to his office, and paused. He gave Jones the "two finger summons" and beckoned for him to report.

"Diana, this is gonna be good. Watch." They both turned and gave their boss' office their undivided attention. "Jones never called Peter last night, to tell him that Keller is a known associate and has been seen in town."

Diana gasped, "Oh, no, he didn't!" Neal nodded, grinning. Diana started laughing as she saw shock and anger fill Peter's face.

"He probably found out when he walked outside and saw the protective detail." Diana's probie agent commented.

"Oh, shit, he looks pissed." Neal hurriedly scooped up some papers and called over his shoulder, "I'm going to run the credit cards for these three, see if we can't narrow down their locations here in New York."

Neal was stopped halfway to his desk by the sound of Peter's voice. Despite the noise in the bullpen, with agents running around and reports piling in, Peter's voice carried. "Caffrey. My office. Now." A sudden hush fell, as the entire floor turned to see how Neal had messed up this time. Peter's voice wasn't filled with hot anger, it was cold, and calm, and it made a shiver run down Neal's spine.

Neal hurried up the stairs to Peter's office. "That's the last time you get coffee, Judas!" Neal hissed at Jones.

Peter glared and motioned him inside, with a firm sounding "Sit down!" and continued his conversation with Jones. Neal tried to eavesdrop, but didn't catch much. It seemed that Jones was simply catching his boss up on the case status. Because of the bugs Diana planted they were able to piece together Ammon's plan—which involved a slash and grab by Keller—and were debating the hows and whens of various take-down options.

Peter finally dismissed Jones, and stepped into his office. He firmly shut the door and sat down at his desk. He shot Neal a solemn look, and then proceeded to carry on with his work as if Neal wasn't there. After a few minutes of being ignored, Neal began fidgeting.

"Be still." Peter didn't even look up from the current file he was reading.

After a few minutes more, Neal finally opened his mouth. "Why am I here, Peter?"

Continuing to focus on his work instead of Neal, Peter answered, "Seriously? You need to ask that?" Peter set down the file and signed a work authorization form tucked inside the blue envelope.

Neal shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to have this conversation right now. "I didn't immediately call you when I found out Keller was in town."

"Oh, you're a mind-reader, Neal!" Peter finally looked up from his work and glared across his desk.

"Look, Peter, I'm sorry—" he was cut off by Peter's sharp hand motion and scolding tone.

"Stop, right there. Stop. If you say 'I'm sorry, but…' I'm going to really get angry. I appreciate that you understand that I'm upset, but I don't think you grasp the 'why' so much." Peter reached for his coffee mug and leaned back in his chair.

"Because of Elizabeth?" Neal was confused, and worried, and didn't like to see his boss and friend this angry—especially at him. Besides, Neal_ had _told Jones. The person Peter should be mad at here was Jones, not him.

"Not just Elizabeth. Keller has repeatedly put the lives of those I care about at risk. You, Neal, you are one of those people. Diana. Jones. Elizabeth. Me. Heck, his goons even roughed up Satchmo. So, no, you don't get to hide this information from me. And," Peter leaned across his desk, leveling a look of intensity that scared Neal, "you especially don't get to launch some half-baked idea about catching Keller and Ammon while I'm asleep in the wee hours of the morning. You are benched, for this one."

Neal recoiled as if Peter had slapped him.

"No, you don't get to pout, either! Your safety is more important to me than collaring those two." Peter sighed, exasperated that Neal couldn't see the amount of danger he'd been in last night.

"Peter, you're being unfair!" Neal pleaded.

"Yeah?"

"I said I'm sorry! But, I told Jones! It was three in the morning! And you would've been pissed if we had woken you." Neal launched into his defense with gusto. He honestly hadn't expected Peter to be this upset.

"Neal, I dealt with Jones. He understands what he did wrong, and why, and he won't ever do it again. And, besides, he took proper steps to ensure my safety. You, scolding you just doesn't work. Nothing works with you. You were planning to meet Keller and go undercover to help him steal the paintings?! No!" Peter took a deep breath because he was nearly roaring at Neal.

"What am I going to have to do to keep you from making dangerous choices? No matter what I threaten, you run headlong into trouble! I can't even threaten to send you back to prison-you don't take anything I say seriously."

Neal opened his mouth to protest. "That's not true! I do take you seriously! I just thought we could catch him. I have a better chance of getting closer to Keller then you guys..."

His voice trailed off as Peter started lecturing again, "No, just stop, Neal. You're too busy thinking of excuses and defenses. I have half a mind to just flip you over my knee and spank you like the pouting nine year old you're being right now."

Neal's mouth dropped open, and he stared at Peter with wide eyes. Peter continued as if he hadn't threatened to upend Neal's world. "In fact, you are too busy thinking up excuses to even give me a proper apology. A simple 'I'm sorry' without a 'but' and an excuse trailing after it is all I want. You're so busy whining about me trying to protect you, that you completely missed the fact that I. Am. Scared. Of. Losing. You. Do you understand me, Neal?"

Neal swallowed, nervously. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what he had told Peter last night in his drunken haze. He vaguely remembered talking about spanking. But he couldn't remember what he'd said specifically.

"Neal. Do you understand me?" Peter repeated himself, annoyance clear in his eyes.

"Yes." Neal swallowed again, and added hastily, "sir."

"Good." Peter shoved a stack of folders at him. "Take these to Jones and Diana."

Neal meekly took them and stood. As he reached for the door, he glanced over his shoulder at his boss. If he hadn't been so scared of what the answer might be, he would have asked, "Would you really spank me?" Instead, he said, "I'm sorry, sir." and scampered out the door.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thanks for all the feedback, again! I've started checking the page rather obsessively while waiting on M to finish beta'ing the next chapter (he's the one who introduced me to White Collar in the first place! When M handed me a thumb drive with season 1, I was instantly addicted). It's exciting to see that y'all are enjoying a story I was originally so nervous about sharing!

To my dear Guest...I didn't even think about the conversation with Ellen and how it had been 15 years. Now I'm thoroughly confused because I was using the White Collar Wikia which says Neal's birthday is March 21st, 1977 (Matt's birthday is different)...Which means the show is contradicting itself. Or more likely the WC Wikia page information is wrong. Anyway, whatever, the point is, we agree: Neal's character is very childish and he does crave boundaries, and Peter (and El and everyone else) sees that he desperately needs some structure in his world. Which is why I wrote him...not *asking* for a spanking, exactly...but observing that Ellen spanking him when he was little was "effective," and that he's still out-of-control even with a tracking anklet and the threat of jail time hanging over his head. I'm not saying he WANTS a spanking, but I did want it to be a little more consensual than other fics I've read. The reason for that is because the real life spanking community is definitely based on consensual agreements. And, as a government employee, Peter could find himself in all sorts of trouble for "abusing" his CI. (hence the conversation with El in the previous chapter:) Peter would never do something so blatantly "against policy" without Neal's consent (simply because Peter is a rule-follower) but also because I think he knows it would give Neal all sorts of leverage. "If you don't extend my radius, I'll tell them you spanked me." ...tell me you can't see Neal making a threat like that in a moment of desperation, even if he was bluffing. =P

...I will say when we get to the spanking bit, Neal won't be all "this is a great idea, Peter!" ...but they're both going to go into it knowing it's consensual and safe, and for Neal's good. Especially because, in this noncannon fic of mine, Neal's an abuse survivor, so putting him in a situation that could potentially trigger flashbacks or panic attacks just isn't something paternal!Peter would do to him. (Public service announcement: the spanking chapter is well over 4000 words already and I don't see anyway to cut it in half to make two smaller chapters, so sorry in advance for that)

Also, my dear readers, serious question here! I was trying to find a picture of those ridiculous paisley pajamas, because I swear I thought they were pink and I wanted to verify that before putting it in the story. My google-fu must be broken though, because the only pictures of Neal in pajamas are just green, red, or a dull grey color. And I can't even tell if they're paisley print. Did I make up some really random pajamas for Neal? Guys, help! Where did pink paisley pajama pants come from?! I mean, he's got great fashion sense, which is why I remember being horrified at those pajamas when I saw them...Unless I was having some crazy daydream...?

Okay, longest author's note ever. Sorry. Next chapter will be up soon, hopefully before the weekend is out...hopefully.


	6. In which everything falls apart

Shortly after lunch, Jones emerged from behind a mountain of paperwork. "Hey! Let's go, guys!"

Neal sat morosely at his desk as he watched the team of agents crowd around Jones for the mission briefing. He tried not to be upset as they strapped on their bullet proof vests and last minute disguises. Diana was once again wearing the itchy wool uniform of the Metropolitan Art Museum docent. Her two probationary officers had changed into jogging clothes. Others were wearing plain street clothes. The relaxed clothing lent a charged air to the normally somber white collar division. A little techie geek was ensuring everyone was outfitted with radio transmitters and earpieces. Most were disguised as sunglasses or iPod earbuds. Undercover stings were the absolute most fun Neal had at work, and being benched in a case that was so personal really hurt.

Neal hunkered down over his desk, reviewing the mortgage fraud case Jones had given him yesterday. When Peter was in a mood like this, Neal would do anything to dispel his anger and get back in his good graces. Peter only threatened sending him back to prison when he was really and truly furious. Last time it was this bad, Neal had been forced to trade a few baseball cards with forged signatures so that he could procure Peter behind-home-plate seats in Yankee Stadium. Since their one-way discussion this morning, Neal had done his utmost to remain below the radar. He only offered information regarding Ammon's normal modus operadi and the occasional morsel regarding his long and sordid history with Keller when Jones or Diana requested his expertise. For the most part, though, Neal hadn't moved from his desk. Every time he did, it felt like Peter's eyes were boring into his back.

Neal glanced at the clock, and sighed. Three more hours, and he could go home. He tried to distract himself with the reports, but soon lost interest. He debated messing with Jones' desk—he was horrible at typing and had to look at the keys as he typed. He could barely peck out twenty words a minute. Switching the M and the N key on his keyboard would provide several hours of amusement watching Jones angrily discover he'd typed "Climtom Jomes" on all of his reports. Neal smiled just thinking about it.

He tried to think of something he could do to make Peter less angry. He'd never admit it to anyone—not even to Mozzie, because he could barely admit it to himself—but he sometimes worried that one day he'd do something that Peter wouldn't be able to forgive. Something that would end him up back in the big house. He thought for sure that running during his commutation hearing was going to do it, but sure enough, Peter followed him and brought him back safely. In fact, Neal ruminated, the time Elizabeth got kidnapped, the whole Nazi treasure incident, both of those times Neal had seen depths of anger and hurt that he never expected Peter to forgive. "What if," Neal thought to himself, "all these times I've pissed Peter off just kept adding up, and I'm running out of chances?"

Neal pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't continue down that thought trail; it terrified him that Peter might really make good on the prison threats and give up on him. He was going to go straight to the gym and swim laps until he couldn't pull himself out of the water, and then he was going to kill a bottle of wine. After yesterday, he was done with whiskey for a very long while. But he had a bottle of Merlot from Moldova that he'd been saving for a bad day.

Neal's moping was cut short when he realized Peter was standing in front of his desk. He looked at his boss, wondering how long he'd been standing there. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but was at a momentary loss for words. Fortunately, Peter didn't give him a chance to speak. "Neal, would you like to come sit in the van and watch the take-down?"

Peter suppressed a smile when he saw Neal's face light up with anticipation. The kid was so easy to read, sometimes.

"Really?" Neal hadn't moved, afraid this offer was too good to be true.

"Well, you won't be allowed to leave the van. But I know how much you want to see these two guys arrested. I only benched you because I want you to stay out of the crossfire." Peter picked up Neal's hat.

"Can't leave the van, got it." Neal stood up, excited to finally be included again, and Peter handed him his fedora. Peter and Neal headed to the elevator; Neal kept glancing up at his boss to try to get some reading on him, because he wasn't sure if the earlier incident was forgiven. He felt like there was a thick tension in the air, and so he remained silent. As the doors closed, he offered a quick, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I really think you deserve to see this, Neal. Also, El made you some sandwiches." Peter smiled at his young charge. He'd been relieved that his scolding earlier seemed to finally break though Neal's thickheadedness. Why couldn't he see that his actions had results, results that affected others (especially those who cared about him the most)?

* * *

Everyone was in place. Diana was herding visitors through the Matisse exhibit, the two probies were stretching as if about to start their jog near the entrance to the Mark hotel, and the rest were posing as businessmen or tourists on the busy streets. Neal had to admit he was a little impressed with the amount of attention to detail Jones had put into this sting operation. The plan was, according to the debriefing announced at FBI headquarters, to allow a successful theft by Keller because there were tracking devices in the picture frames. Diana's role was to protect innocent bystanders. They would then carefully track him, because they didn't know the precise hand-off location—just that it would take place on foot near the Mark. Neal had suggested that it would most likely be near a taxi stand, because Ammon would have to catch a flight back to Saint Louis today, or else risk violating his parole agreement. They ruled out the subway because of the chatter they'd picked up from the planted bugs. They knew the hand off would happen in person, and that it would have to take long enough for Ammon to wire the payment to Keller.

Peter and Jones were watching the screens in the van with intensity. Neal, still feeling a little insecure, tried to stay hidden in the background and to make as little noise as possible. He didn't want to risk being sent home before watching Keller and Ammon get arrested.

When Peter unwrapped the sandwiches, though, he couldn't help observing "that ham smells terrible, Peter."

"That's why El packed you egg salad." Peter tossed a sandwich to Neal, who took it with a smile.

"Jones, I don't know what you got, but here." Peter handed him a small brown bag labeled "Clinton."

Jones looked into the bag and smiled, "I win, ham and egg salad!" Both Peter and Neal rolled their eyes in response.

While Neal unwrapped his sandwich, he said, "Tell Elizabeth thank you for us, Peter."

Clinton added around a mouthful of food, "Yeah, it's delicious as always."

The conversation grew quiet as they munched on chips and sandwiches. Neal watched the small screens; he could easily pick out the agents. They weren't nearly as sly or undercover as they thought they were.

"Peter! Jones!" Neal motioned to the screen. "Frank's on the move!"

"Shit. That wasn't in his plan." Peter dropped his sandwich and hurried to grab his radio.

Before he could get a word out on the net, he heard Diana's voice, ripe with adrenaline, "Boss! Keller just took the Sailors off the wall!" There was a muffled cacophony of yells and the sound of shots being fired. Jones was toggling between screens, trying to track Ammon and ensure Diana was safe. "He fucking SHOT at me! That bastard! I'm gonna—" Diana's threats were cut off when she realized she had a herd of terrified museum visitors to calm down and escort to safety.

Peter and Jones quit trying to track Ammon and focused entirely on Diana when Keller began firing. Her voice switched to authoritative professional as she tried to calm the masses, "Alright! Everyone, get down until this man has escorted the premises. Get down, ma'am. We'll ensure your safety. GET DOWN." Peter and Jones were relieved to see no one was hurt. Peter was speaking rapidly into his radio, alerting all the agents standing by to be prepared to follow, but not engage Matthew Keller.

The entire time, Neal was watching Ammon move through the streets. He suddenly realized the plan. It was an old con, one that he and Keller had once run before when they were in their early teens. It involved handing off the stolen goods and continuing to remain a distraction. Neal knew that after Keller gave Ammon the art, he would continue to draw the law enforcement officials' attention to him. When they finally apprehended him, they would have no evidence-no pictures on the museum security footage, no fingerprints, and ballistics would show the gun in Keller's possession wasn't used to attack Diana. Neal knew if he didn't intercept Keller and get the transaction recorded by the FBI, they wouldn't be able to incriminate him in the theft. Without saying a word to either Peter or Jones, he slipped outside the van and took off at a run.

Jones and Peter continued to bark instructions at the other agents over the radio. "Forget Ammon, get Keller, this sting has gone sideways. Forget about trying to catch them during the hand-off-if we don't catch Keller before he leaves the Met we will lose those paintings, forever!" The other agents left their undercover positions and swarmed the building, blocking all entrances.

Diana had finally handed her charges over to the museum security and was speaking into her watch transmitter. Her voice was clipped and she was breathing heavily as she tore through the museum. She had her gun out and was trying desperately to catch up to Keller. "Boss, he's gone upstairs, don't have eyes on him, can you see him? Where is he? I'm going up the southern stairwell! Send back up!"

Jones was rapidly scanning all the camera feeds. "Boss, I can't find him! I can't find him!" Jones suddenly caught sight of someone on the screens, and it caused him to drop his cup of coffee. Amidst his violent cursing, he managed to choke out, "Neal. That's Neal!"

Peter whipped around in his chair so quickly he almost fell out of it. Sure enough, he and Jones were the only two inside. He ripped off his headphones and slammed open the doors. He scanned the pedestrians who were oblivious to the crisis unfolding around them, desperate for any sign of his young charge. Peter stumbled back into the van, and clutched at the laptop. He quickly pulled up the anklet tracker database and entered his identification and password.

"C'mon, load…faster…Fuck! He's really in the Met!" There was once a time in their early days of working together that in a Neal-gone-rogue situation, Peter would have been certain a crime was about to unfold. While that was still an occasional concern, more recently Peter began fearing that Neal would do something stupid enough that would get him in trouble. Not because he was malicious or because he wanted to commit crimes, but because he simply was impetuous and didn't think his actions through. Today, right now, in the middle of this epic fuck-up, Peter was afraid that Neal would get wounded, or killed. Keller was a bloodthirsty criminal, who was not afraid to kill to get what he wanted. Peter was sure somewhere on Keller's wish list was a desire for revenge for the past several years in prison. Ammon was equally dangerous, although, to what extent, Peter wasn't sure. Peter felt his blood pressure skyrocket because Neal, acting without thinking, as always, was now caught between the two of them.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Guys...I just finished Season 5. (minor spoilers ahead) I'm...I can't even process this right now. I'm annoyed with El and Peter, I'm furious with Peter and Neal and if Peter doesn't *fix it!* and instead leaves it for Neal to pick up the pieces after everything I'm gonna flip my shit. I'm beyond angry with the higher-ups...I was proud of Neal for saying no to Moz until the higher-ups fucked everything all to pieces and Neal is about to undo everything he's accomplished...and OMG WTF WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE VERY END?! YOU CAN'T JUST END IT LIKE THAT! AURGGHHHHHHH!

/end rant.

*sigh* I'm just gonna hafta write more White Collar fan fiction to get my fix, I guess.

How much longer do we have to wait until Season 6?


	7. In which Neal saves the art

Neal had moved without thinking of the repercussions. There was a small part of his brain screaming "Peter's gonna kill you!" But he shoved it aside and focused entirely on trying to intercept Keller. If these paintings got out, there would be a whole host of negative repercussions. Peter would be in some serious shit with the FBI. Keller would be free and probably plotting revenge for his last stint in jail. Ammon would get away, again, and knowing he was out on the street (and that he knew where Neal was) was going to mean endless complications for Neal. Ammon had a control over his life, that no matter how hard Neal ran, or how many times he changed his identity, or how many documents and records he destroyed, Neal simply couldn't escape.

Catching up with Keller was going to be the tricky part. If he could catch up with his old friend, rival, and enemy, he could spin the lies and manipulate Keller to hand over the paintings. That would be the easy part. He was Neal Caffrey, professional conman, after all. Neal slipped around the west side of the building, careful to avoid the agents around the building. He knew that Peter would have put an alert out for him by now. He reached his goal: the fire escape. It took a few jumps, but he finally managed to catch hold of the lowest rung and pull down the ladder. He scrabbled up, trying to be careful of his suit. Neal climbed up the seemingly endless steps, until he emerged on the roof. He crouched down, and listened. After a few seconds he heard a door, heavy, slide open with a screech.

"Keller! I know you're up here!" Neal carefully stood, keeping his hands in plain sight so that Keller wouldn't get a hasty trigger-finger. Sure enough, about forty feet away, near a service entrance, stood Keller. He was holding the pistol clumsily in his left hand, and trying to juggle the remains of two bulky frames under his right arm.

"You're like a bad penny, Caffrey! Get out of my heist or else I'll shoot you. I still owe you for that Russian shit!"

"Bygones, Kels!" Neal tried to walk toward Keller. He'd grown his hair out and obviously spent some time—probably during his stint in prison—working on gaining muscle mass.

Keller brandished the gun. "Get back!"

"I'm following instructions, Kels, just like you. Remember the Smithsonian?"

Keller paused, and again shuffled the frames against his hip. "Which time?"

"Campbell's Soup!" They had stolen a collection of diamonds that had been cut into the alphabet. They named their heist Campbell's Soup because the diamonds were roughly the same size as the tiny letters in a can of Alphabet Soup. There had been a giant change in plans when their get-away vehicle had been towed for parking illegally. Keller had forgotten to put their forged handicapped card in the window. As a result, he was forced to remain as a distraction while Neal found an alternative route home. He'd nearly been caught on the subway-he hoped Keller would remember that particular detail.

"Oh fuck you! I'm not taking these to the subway!" Keller apparently did remember exactly how easily the police could sea off the subway—they could flip a switch and his train would be stuck on the tracks while they sealed off the ends with agents. He began backing away from Neal. He knew he was trapped. He could either get past Neal and onto the fire escape, or face the FBI agents following his trail inside the museum.

"I'm not asking you to take them on the subway. Frank told me to do it." Neal leaned nonchalantly against the edge of the railing.

Keller glanced hastily over his shoulder at the service entrance. "Prove it!"

"I'll transfer the funds for those paintings right now, or better yet, you call him!" Neal hoped Peter was listening to this. He knew Peter could hack his back account information and make it look like he'd transferred the money to Keller. He had picked up one of the radio transmitters disguised as a watch, and was wearing it now.

Keller set down the paintings, and began digging a pocket knife against the staples holding the canvas to the wooden frame. He kept glancing nervously between Neal and the door. He knew he was about to be trapped. He freed one painting and rolled it up tightly. A small part of Neal's brain was relieved that Keller hadn't actually cut the canvas. Those paintings were too valuable to ruin that way.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Neal! God dammit. Fine. Get out your phone. SLOWLY." Keller picked up the other portrait and jogged over to the fire escape. He held his gun, steady, at Neal.

Neal slowly lifted his jacket lapel and gingerly pulled out his phone. "My phone, Kels. Just the phone." At his words, Keller relaxed slightly.

Neal looked at the screen and saw he had five missed calls and several text messages from Peter. No doubt he was furious. He ignored the notifications and opened up the banking app on his phone. A text popped up on the screen, interrupting him. It was from Peter and simply read, "Done."

Neal almost sighed in relief. "Look, Kels, see the balance?" He turned his phone around. "Half a mil for each."

"That wasn't the deal." Keller licked his lips. His nervousness was growing almost tangible.

"Yeah it was. You think I'm dumb enough to accept an assignment from Frank without verifying all the facts?" Neal silently thanked Jones for debriefing him during the early hours that morning. Their bugs had picked up the dollar amount for the paintings.

"You got me, can't blame a guy for trying for a little extra pocket money. Okay, start the transfer. Seriously, Caffrey, lets do this and get out of here. You're a fool if you're gonna try for the subway." Keller began attacking the frame of the second painting.

"What's your account number?" Neal carefully repeated each digit, allowing Peter and Jones enough time to fake the transfer.

Keller rolled up the second painting. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and after a few clicks to verify he had the money, he tossed the rolled up paintings at Neal's feet. "Tell Frank next time he wants to change the plans midway through I want a courtesy call."

Neal picked up the paintings. "The only reason he didn't call you is because he knew you'd be pissed that he still remembered the Smithsonian incident. You were the one that screwed up the getaway, after all."

Keller flicked his middle finger at Neal. "That's bullshit. Get out of here before I decide to deliver those to Frank myself, and leave your dead body here for the feds."

"I wouldn't go down the southern stairwell, if I were you." Neal hooked one leg over the fire escape railing. He knew that if he told Keller to not take the southern stairs, he would. And, hopefully, that would give Peter enough time to get agents inside the building waiting for Keller.

Neal made it down two stories and spoke into his watch. "Peter, if you're listening, Keller is going down the south stairs. I'm going to call Ammon and have him meet me for the portraits; he's on his way to the airport. I'll have him meet me at the subway station on 68th Street. Please, please, get someone there to arrest him!"

Neal pulled out his phone, and ignored the newest text message from Peter. "Stop! Don't you dare arrange this meet."

He dialed the number from the wire-tap approval. Sure enough, it was Ammon's personal cell.

"Frank. I've got your art."

Ammon's voice was muffled as he ordered, "Pull the cab over right now!" He spoke clearly into the phone. "Dannyboy! Why are you calling me, and not Keller?"

"The Feds caught him." Neal made it down the rest of the fire escape and launched himself at the ground.

"I knew the rumours about you being legit were fake. You always were my boy, willing to do anything to keep the family safe and out of trouble. I've wanted these two paintings for a long time." Neal felt sick to his stomach at the oily sound of Ammon's voice and the memories his simple observation brought to mind.

"Well, how about I meet you at 68th, near the subway. I need a clean getaway after the fiasco Keller made." Neal took off at a dead sprint, not caring that he was getting strange looks from pedestrians.

Ammon grew muffled again, Neal figured he was holding his hand over the phone while he spoke with the cabbie. After a few seconds, he said, "I'll meet you in five, Danny."

Neal rounded the corner and was relieved to see no FBI agents waiting to bring him back to Peter. He leaned against the subway entrance and pulled out his phone. He called Peter, bracing himself for the tongue lashing heading his way.

Peter didn't yell. What he did say caused Neal to feel a tremor of fear, though. "Neal, we are going to have a very painful discussion after this is finished. Do you understand me?"

Neal knew he was in some serious trouble, just from Peter's tone alone. He answered with a meek sounding "I understand," but his mind was racing to figure out how he could get Peter calm before this threatened painful discussion. "No doubt," Neal reassured himself, "Peter is just stressed because he watched his entire sting operation fall apart. He'll be okay once we catch Frank and the paintings are back in the Met."

Before Neal could say anything else, Peter asked gruffly, "What do you need from us? What backup can we get you?"

"The arresting people is your area of expertise, boss. I just steal valuables." Neal said with a smile.

"Okay. We've got someone on the roof of a nearby building with a sniper rifle. You'll be covered. We've got two agents who will be inside the subway entrance, but they're headed there via the subway station outside the Mark. Four are making their way on foot now, but you've got a bit of a head start. Our guys should be in place in eight to ten minutes." Peter filled Neal in with information as Jones gave it to him.

"No good, Peter, he's gonna be here in five."

"Then stall him!" Peter swore angrily and started barking orders for Jones to get his people there immediately. Neal hung up his phone and began scanning the crowd for his old mentor.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thanks for all the feedback guys. I didn't realize I left it on such a cliffhanger! Whoops! This one has slightly more resolution than the previous chapter. I hope you guys don't mind the plot-I was trying to keep it similar to an actual episode, with some theft and undercover action scenes. Right now I've got a total of 10, maybe 11 chapters, so we're almost done.

Thank you for the advice about contacting USA and Fox in order to renew White Collar for more than a partial sixth and possibly seventh season. I have written them and expressed, in no uncertain terms, my extreme displeasure with the cancellation. I understand if Matt Bomer wants to expand out of network TV (I'd love to see him on the big screen) but I'm going to be so sad when this show ends...!


	8. In which Neal almost sells the art

After a few minutes, a taxi pulled up to the corner. Ammon paid the cabbie and stepped out, a small piece of carry-on luggage thrown over his shoulder. He sauntered down the street. Neal plastered on a smile, while glancing around as inconspicuously as possible. He still didn't see any of the agents. Even though their disguises were really good, Neal had no problem picking an agent out of the crowd. Mozzie and Neal had spent a whole evening and a few bottles of wine dissecting what gave it away. Mozzie was convinced it was in their hair and posture. Neal thought there was no physical explanation—after so much time spent on the run from (and more recently in company of) federal agents and law enforcement, he was able to intuitively recognize one even when they were in 'street clothes.' In any event, Neal could tell not a single agent was on station yet. He had checked his phone for the subway schedule and knew he had three minutes before the two agents would be able to disembark and assume their assigned position guarding the entrance.

He stepped forward and met Ammon at the corner.

"Hello, Dannyboy." Ammon put his arm around Neal and drew him in for a hug. Neal fought the urge to pull away, and instead of stiffening his posture he leaned into the embrace.

"We didn't get a chance to talk at headquarters." Neal attempted to strike up conversation, clutching at any straw to delay the exchange.

"Well, that little dyke is a right bitch." Neal raised his eyebrows, and Ammon clarified, "You know, the one with that little boxy tattoo? The one who dragged me in?"

"Oh, Diana. Yeah, she's got a temper." Neal smiled, and wondered if she was in the van listening. "I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother."

"Yeah. It was time. She'd been fighting the emphysema for so long. Surprised it didn't kill her earlier." Ammon shrugged. "So, Dannyboy, what you got for me?"

"I hope they're the ones you wanted." Neal began to unroll the paintings.

"No, no, not in public! You've been out of the game too long." Ammon reached for the Matisses, and Neal pulled them out of his grasp.

"Not so long that I forgot that you don't trade goods blindly, old man!" Neal rolled them back up and smiled at his old mentor. "You taught me that. Transfer the money first, and I'll hand 'em over."

Ammon glared at Neal. "What, no trust?"

"None." Neal plastered on his most charming smile, and made a little shrugging motion as if to say, 'nothing to be done about it!'

Ammon stared stonily at Neal for a few heartbeats, during which Neal almost faltered, but finally, Ammon gave a chuckle. "You always were my favorite, Danny!"

Ammon pulled his phone out of his pocket, and while he was busy navigating the banking app, Neal breathed a huge sigh of relief—the metro had arrived and passengers were flooding up the narrow stairwell. That meant two agents were on station. He glanced around, hoping in vain to catch sight of another on the streets, but still, nothing.

Hoping to stall him further, Neal asked, "Frank, how are you doing? How are the boys?"

"You homesick, son?"

Avoiding the truth, which was no, Neal was definitely not homesick for anything that happened in Saint Louis, he answered, "Seeing you stirred up some old memories."

Frank nodded, believing that Neal really did miss the outlaw life Frank had created for him and the small band of his "brothers." "Here, put in your account number." He handed Neal the phone.

"Well, Matthew lost his shit. He got in bad with the Russians, the Mafiya had it out for him. He ended up doing some time for stealing some music box—can you believe that shit? A music box, I mean, is that something a pansy would steal, or what!" Neal smiled at Frank's ignorance. If Frank only knew the value of that music box, he wouldn't be making fun of it.

"Yeah, he seemed really nervous during the job." Neal observed.

"Well, he came back begging for a job, he's fallen on rough times—but you'd know all about that, eh? He had some angry shit to say about you. Said you set him up for some heavy time in prison." Frank was getting into the conversation, and Neal did his best to keep it going smoothly.

"He kidnapped a federal agent, I had nothing to do with him getting such a heavy jail sentence. That's his own dumb genius. How about the rest of the guys?"

"Well, Curtis Hagen is doing some time for forging Spanish Victory Bonds and Canadian 100 dollar bills."

Neal was relieved to see an agent in jogging clothes round the corner at a full sprint. He made eye contact and tried to keep Ammon talking. Trying hard to keep the irony out of his voice, because he had helped put the Dutchmen behind bars, he observed, "I heard Curtis was doing time." Neal handed the phone back to Ammon, "Here, that's my bank account number."

Ammon fiddled with the phone for a second, and then "Alright. Transfer complete." He held up his phone to prove he'd just wired a million dollars into Neal's account.

"What about Davis, how's he?"

"Oh, good, he got heavily involved in the drug trade and is pretty much the kingpin down there. He ran the books for me while I was in lockup." Ammon had a proud look on his face. "He was the only one of you four who learned not to get his hands dirty."

"Well, I guess you're getting your hands dirty, today, eh?" He proffered the roll of paintings.

Frank Ammon grinned and clutched at the paintings. "Yeah. Guess so. You should come back, Danny. You obviously miss the life."

"I've got responsibilities here." He stuck out his hand, and Ammon shook it.

"All right, the offer stands." Ammon pulled Neal into a hug. "Thanks."

Neal breathed a sigh of relief as the FBI agent in jogging clothes stepped up to Ammon. She had unholstered her service weapon and held it pointed it at the ground while she moved closer.

Neal pulled out of the hug and answered Ammon with, "For this, you're welcome."

Without missing a beat, the agent raised her gun and chimed in, "FBI! You're under arrest!" Ammon looked at Neal with a mixture of rage and disappointment.

Two more agents swarmed out of the subway entrance with their guns drawn. It was only a matter of seconds before Frank Ammon was cuffed and in the backseat of a squad car.

* * *

Once back at headquarters, the hours seemed to stretch on endlessly for Neal. He had to give a statement, as usual, and then fill out the required reports. He knew it was even worse for Jones, as the head agent he also had to fill out entirely separate report documenting Neal's involvement. After Neal finished his reports, he found himself growing bored, despite his high spirits at his success. Everyone was desperate to watch the interrogation, but Ammon had 'lawyered up' and was refusing to say anything under advice of his attorney. The Saint Louis Police Department was also requesting Ammon be sent down to Missouri because he was in violation of his parole. They wanted him back in prison—for good reason.

Neal kicked his feet up on his desk and tossed his ball of rubber bands into the air. He was pretty satisfied with the afternoon—he'd pretty much single-handedly salvaged the operation. Diana had cuffed Keller on the stairs, Ammon was in custody, and they had recovered two priceless works of art. It was a win for everyone. He glanced around the bullpen and decided to kill some time by getting himself a cup of coffee. He wandered over to the machine and poured himself a cup. Neal immediately began a small hunt for some sugar or cream to mitigate the bitter taste. He normally took his coffee black. At least, he did when it was good coffee. This Bureau coffee was probably among the worst that he'd ever tasted.

"Looking for this?" Peter handed him the container of sugar.

"Thanks!" Neal smiled brightly, but as he glanced at his boss, his face fell.

"Something wrong, Peter?" He busied himself with doctoring his coffee while trying to figure out why Peter wasn't happy with today's victory.

"Yes." Peter sighed, and leaned against the counter. "We need to talk. Go home. I'll be by after we finish tying up the loose ends here."

Neal nodded. He dumped his cup of coffee in the sink. Peter watched him walk dejectedly back to his desk. Neal was so mercurial, one minute he'd be walking on the clouds, and the next he'd be in the depths of despair. Peter shook his head. Normally his CI was much better at concealing his emotions. "Or else," he mused to himself, "I've just gotten better at reading him."

* * *

**Author's Note: **My lovely readers, thank you again for all the feedback. I'm glad you're liking the story. I know I said I'd consider shooting Ammon, so please forgive me ullswater! If I'm going to continue this particular thread of White Collar fan fiction, I need him alive and well. We might see him break out of prison in a future story.

I especially want to thank just-a-scrivener for a wonderful review. You are the *first* person who has ever convincingly explained Neal's age-and-behavior to me. I shall be (eventually) going back and editing this story to make his age cannon compliant. I had to laugh at your analysis of the Burke's kitchen. I suppose this is why we haven't seen Satchmo for pretty much all of Season 5, either. Maybe he's just been asleep in their physics-defying kitchen the entire time El has been packing and we can't see him because...it's the kitchen's fault. Haha. Anyway, you are welcome to leave reviews of any length any time you so desire. (Also, I'm relieved to hear you say that 36 isn't middle aged. I'm not as old as I previously thought, haha!) Also, I like your username.

I split the behemoth chapter-the spanking chapter!-into three separate ones. I'm debating going back and putting them in one chapter though...but it's like 6,000 words...There's a chapter "In Which Peter Discusses Spanking with Neal," a chapter "In Which Neal Gets A Spanking" and a chapter "In Which Peter Reassures Neal." (I obviously can't title any of my chapters decently, so thank you all for not giving me grief about that particular shortcoming) Do you guys have any particular preference on chapter delivery?


	9. In which Peter reaches a conclusion

Neal's mind was racing as he moved aimlessly around his loft at June's. He replayed the events of the day in his mind over and over, but still came to the same conclusions. Peter's anger at Neal accidentally concealing information regarding Keller's whereabouts should have faded away in light of the fact that Neal pretty much saved the day. No matter how Peter wanted to look at it, if it hadn't been for Neal, they would have lost not one, but two original Matisse paintings, and had two criminals walking free.

He made himself some coffee, some amazing Kopi Luwak coffee that June had imported especially from Indonesia. He smiled at the smell and took a sip. Perfect. He could drink it unadulterated with cream or sugar. Neal sat down on the couch and tried to distract himself with a new book, but soon found he had read, and reread, the same paragraph five or six times and still hadn't absorbed anything. He set the book down when he remembered his brand new calligraphy pen set. After another cup of coffee, he sat down at the table with his new pen and nibs, a soft toothbrush, a towel, and a small bowl of water and dishsoap. He began methodically cleaning the nibs. He had just finished drying the third nib when he heard a knock at the door. Neal wasn't sure if he was relieved that Peter finally arrived, or even more anxious now that he was here. He set down the soapy toothbrush and opened the door.

"Come in, Peter. Want a coffee or a beer?" Peter took his suit jacket off and hung it over the back of the couch as he walked through the loft.

"Yeah, a beer sounds great. Thanks." He examined the mess on the table, "Keeping busy, I see."

"Idle hands, and all that." Neal handed Peter the beer, and sat back in front of his dismantled pen set. "I'm removing the manufacturer's oil from the nibs so when I use them the ink won't flow haphazardly." He offered a short explanation, and carefully fitted one of the cleaned nibs into the end of the pen. He placed it back in box, and then looked at Peter expectantly.

Peter sat down at the other end of the table, and tried to sort out his thoughts. Neal couldn't take the silence anymore, and finally blurted out, "Okay, Peter, what? What do you want to talk to me about?"

"The conversation we had yesterday evening. The one we had after you polished off the bottle of whiskey."

Neal felt his anxiety skyrocket. He couldn't remember the specifics of that conversation, but he knew they'd discussed some highly personal and sensitive information. Peter continued, "Do you remember what you said to me?"

Neal shook his head, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

"You said you wanted someone to spank you. That threats of jail, a tracking anklet, and scolding you don't have any effect on you." Peter picked at the label of the beer with his thumbnail, and waited for Neal to speak.

There were so many concerns Peter had with this, he couldn't believe he'd listened to Elizabeth and was trying to have this conversation with Neal. If word of this got out, he could face an inquiry at work—all the cases he consulted in with Neal could be brought under review. It could even be spun that Peter had sexually assaulted or molested Neal. That was the furthest thing from his mind, but still, spanking Neal could be grounds for harassment charges. He was also deeply concerned that by bringing this up, he'd scare Neal or in some way damage their relationship. Peter took a deep breath and started to stand.

"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea."

"No, wait. Wait. Please sit back down, Peter." Neal was in complete and utter shock. He wasn't even sure he'd heard Peter right. "I said that?"

"Yeah." Peter took a gulp of his beer. "Now that you're sober, do you feel that way still?"

Neal ran his hands through his hair. "Did I tell you that Ellen used to spank me?"

Peter nodded, so Neal continued, "It sounds strange to say, but it made me feel like she cared. Like she didn't give up on me."

Neal paused, deliberating over his next word choice.

"I know I'm an adult, Peter. But sometimes I feel out of control. Like the only time there are consequences is when it's something huge. Huge, like, being arrested and thrown in jail. I don't think normal people think that way. That they can do whatever they want, whenever they want." Neal fiddled with this coffee mug, lining the handle up perfectly with the edge of the table.

He added softly, "You're the only person that's ever consistently given me boundaries."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, and you completely disregard them-like today."

"Yeah, I do. And that's why I said what I did. Because I'm scared one day you're going to decide that you're gonna give up and send me back to jail." Neal dropped his gaze, unable to look at Peter now that he'd vocalized some of his darker fears.

Peter's eyebrows were raised as he listened to Neal's observations. After a minute of heavy silence he realized Neal wasn't going to say anything else. He spoke, "Are you asking me to give you consequences to the boundaries I already give you?"

Neal looked up at Peter. He nodded his head.

Peter set his beer down. "I need to hear you say it, Neal. Just because…" his voice trailed off uncertainly.

Neal shoved his hands into his pockets. Neal knew that he was giving off extremely defensive body signals, but didn't really care.

Peter was quiet for a moment, and then spoke. "I was terrified when you left the van today. I thought Keller was going to shoot you. And you walked right up to him! Did you forget how dangerous he is?! I watched him shoot at Diana, and then the next thing I know you're standing in front of him!" Neal looked up in surprise at Peter's tone. "And then, Ammon. That sack of...Do you have any idea how I felt, knowing someone who hurt you like that was close enough to fucking hug you?! And you let him!" Peter took a deep breath, trying to control the rage that was threatening to boil up inside him. He knew Neal would think he was furious at him, and not understand he was furious at the situation he put himself in with Ammon. He tried to explain, "Look, sitting in the van, watching you bounce between those two, all I could think was that I was about to lose you." Peter paused, because Neal was now hunched over and staring at his feet.

Peter got up and walked over to Neal. He put one hand on Neal's shoulder, and reached out and touched Neal's chin with his other, "look at me, Neal." He waited until he had Neal's attention.

"Why do you disobey my instructions? Your choices are going to end you up in jail or killed!" Peter's exasperation was evident.

Neal took a deep breath and blurted out, "I don't mean to!"

Peter sighed and stepped away from Neal before he started yelling furiously at him. He walked over to the window and gazed out on the city, hands on his hips, confounded at Neal's determination to disregard everything Peter told him. His thoughts were churning into a million different directions.

Neal watched Peter, nervously. Anytime Peter was angry with him it left Neal feeling helpless and desperate. Peter was the only constant in Neal's life, and Neal couldn't stomach the thought of Peter sliding the cold and unyielding metal of the handcuffs around his wrists again. Peter only brought up jail when he was really, truly furious. Neal didn't think he seemed that angry, though. He seemed more...defeated.

"I don't mean to," Neal said again, as if he could say it enough times and maybe Peter would finally understand.

"Peter?" Neal took a shaky breath as Peter turned around and looked at Neal with heavy eyes. The words tumbled out of Neal. "I really don't mean to. You're the only one, except Ellen, who's ever expected me to follow the rules. I guess I need help, because I mean to follow the rules, but I can't, but it isn't on purpose, and then you're angry and I can't fix it. Maybe I was right, when I was drunk. That Ellen spanking me worked because I can't do it on my own."

Neal watched Peter closely. He'd been so anxious this entire conversation that he hadn't really gotten a read on his boss. Peter seemed to reach some sort of conclusion because he nodded firmly. "Okay, then, Neal. I'm going to help you to follow my rules. I'm going spank you for your disobedience today, and maybe that will help you choose wisely tomorrow."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Guys, instead of making you wait until the weekend and posting all three as one chapter, I opted to post them as soon as the beta'ing is done. M, you're a gem, thank you for catching my spelling errors and grammatical mistakes.

Thank you guys for the feedback and reviews and follows! It makes me happy to know you're enjoying the story.

More soon, I promise!


	10. In which Neal gets a spanking

...

Neal watched Peter closely. He'd been so anxious this entire conversation that he hadn't really gotten a read on his boss. Peter seemed to reach some sort of conclusion because he nodded firmly. "Okay, then, Neal. I'm going to help you to follow my rules. I'm going spank you for your disobedience today, and maybe that will help you choose wisely tomorrow."

* * *

Peter walked over the couch. "You want to close your curtains?" He sat down and looked at Neal expectantly.

"Wait. Wait, Peter. Right now?" Neal felt the air leave him in a big whoosh.

"Yes, right now." Peter undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He gave a stern look to Neal.

Neal moved in a daze to the windows, and pulled shut the heavy curtains.

"Neal, come here." Peter's voice had changed to one of complete authority. Neal swallowed. His feet seemed to move of their own volition.

"Alright, Neal, before we start, do you know why you're getting a spanking?" Peter looked at him expectantly.

Neal, however, was studiously avoiding eye-contact with Peter. "I can guess."

"Okay. Tell me why you think you deserve a spanking." Peter put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the couch.

"I hid information from you about Keller. I pouted in the office after you scolded me for it. I ran out of the surveillance van even after you told me not to. I ignored your text warnings about Frank Ammon and engaged him anyway. But, Peter, it worked out! I don't think I deserve a spanking for those things. Today was a big win for White Collar Division." Neal's voice had a bit of panic in it. He wondered how he'd never noticed just how big Peter's hands were before now. And immediately on the heels of that thought was, "what if he uses something other than his hands to spank me?"

"No, Neal. I'm spanking you because you disobeyed me. Bad choices aren't suddenly okay just because everything turned out good this time. Do you understand?"

Neal shifted from foot to foot in front of Peter. Even though he was standing up, looking down at Peter, he felt small. He finally spoke, "The ends don't justify the means."

Peter nodded, satisfied that Neal understood. "Yes. Take off your pants and jacket." Neal hesitated, until Peter spoke, almost gently. "Come on, kid, I don't want to be responsible for wrinkling up your precious Sy Devore suit."

Neal's fingers trembled slightly as he unbuckled his belt and slipped out of his pants. He felt completely vulnerable in his bright, kingfisher-blue boxers. After a second of consideration, he pulled off his socks. Peter raised his eyebrows, and Neal said defensively, "I feel dumb with my socks on and no pants."

Neal placed his jacket and pants on the coffee table, and after another second of consideration, he pulled his tie loose and slipped it off, too.

"Alright. Neal, I'm going to spank you how my father spanked me. If I had done something really serious, he did use his belt. Just keep that in mind when you're over my knees today, that this is not as painful as it can be." Peter had no intention of taking a belt to Neal, but he knew that the threat would stay with him for a very long time.

Neal involuntary moved backward. Peter sighed in exasperation and motioned Neal back in place with his signature two-finger summons. He stopped several feet away, but Peter beckoned him closer, until he was standing right next to him. Neal's hands were fluttering at his sides. He felt like he was a little kid, again, and he did not like that feeling at all.

"C'mon, kid." Peter pulled gently on Neal's wrist. Neal was trying to talk himself through this, telling himself that it wasn't going to really hurt, that it'd only last for a little bit, that it wasn't going to be so bad. He carefully lowered himself across Peter's lap. Peter tucked a throw pillow under Neal's chest. "Here, that'll make it more comfortable for you, holding onto that."

Peter shifted his legs to more evenly distribute Neal's weight across his upper thighs. Neal felt powerless. He felt himself start to panic until Peter rested his hand in the small of his back. At Peter's touch, calm flooded his body. Even if this hurt, he knew Peter wouldn't harm him. As odd as it was, considering he was about to get spanked, Neal felt safe.

"Alright, Neal, just so we're clear, one last time. Why are you getting this spanking?"

Neal mumbled, "I hid something from you and I disobeyed your instructions." Neal's heartbeat was racing.

"Yes. You did. And you won't do it again." Peter slid a thumb under Neal's boxer waistband and gently tugged them down. Neal reached back in a panic, but Peter gave him an extremely hard swat. Neal froze and sucked air in a gasp. He wasn't expecting a single slap to hurt that much. For the first time he started to ignore his embarrassment and worry that maybe this was really going to hurt.

"I need to see where I'm spanking, Neal. That's all." At Peter's reassurances Neal let go of his boxers. Neal's pale cheeks were reddening slightly at Peter's initial slap.

Peter wrapped his arm around Neal's waist, pulling him tightly against his lap to hold him still, and without any other warning he unleashed a volley of slaps that quickly had Neal flexing his legs. Peter stopped to scold. "Neal, I can't express how frustrated I get when you keep dangerous information from me." Peter punctuated his next sentence with hard smacks, alternating between Neal's cheeks. "I! will! not! tolerate! this! type! of! behavior! anymore!"

"Do you understand me?" Peter continued spanking, alternating between Neal's "sit spots" and "spank spots." Neal started squirming, kicking his legs in earnest. In response, Peter simply tightened his grip on Neal's waist. Peter didn't slow down, and asked again, "Do you understand me!?"

Gasping for breath, Neal blurted out amidst his spanking, "Yes! Yes Peter-sir! I understand! I won't keep stuff from you! I won't! I promise! I won't!" Peter finally stopped spanking. He ran his hand over Neal's bottom to gently rub out the sting. Neal's breathing slowed considerably during the small reprieve. His bottom was a bright cherry red, now. Unfortunately for Neal, Peter wasn't done.

"Neal. What's the second reason you're getting a spanking?" Peter waited expectantly.

Neal closed his eyes against the embarrassment of the whole situation and muttered, "Because I didn't do what you told me to do. I mean, I did something after you told me not to do it."

"That's right. And that is going to stop. Immediately. I want to trust you when we go out on field work, but I can't as long as you disobey my instructions."

"Peter. Don't you think that's enough?" Neal's voice held a small tone of panic, and he tried to cover his bottom with his hand. Peter tapped Neal's wrist. "Move it, Neal."

After a moment of intense internal debate, Neal tucked his hand underneath the pillow Peter had given him, and tucked it to his chest, leaving his bottom defenseless against Peter's hand. Peter resumed his lecture. "This is for disobeying me." He began spanking Neal again.

Neal yelped at the sudden pain, and quickly clamped his mouth shut. He was a grown man-and grown men don't make noises like that. It didn't take long before Neal realized he was close to tears. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, determined not to let Peter see him cry. Peter alternated cheeks, not missing a beat despite Neal's increased struggling. Neal forgot his pride entirely as the heat turned into a painful burn-he was soon yelping and yelling despite his best attempts at self-control. It wasn't long before he started twisting and kicking, trying to get out of Peter's grasp. He started pleading, and making promises-in his desperation he'd say anything if Peter would just stop already. "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm sorry! I'll listen from now on! I mean it! I promise! Please stop! Please, sir! Peter! I'm sorry, I said I'm sorry!"

Peter, however, was relentless. He knew, from his own personal experiences over his father's lap that he was nowhere close to making his point understood with Neal. As long as Neal was struggling and fighting against the spanking, Peter was determined that this spanking would continue. Neal had to learn to submit to Peter's authority-the sooner, the better. Peter was determined that Neal learn that lesson now, in the safe confines of this room. He hadn't been able to teach it to him by arresting him, jailing him, putting a tracking anklet on him-but maybe, just maybe, he could teach him that lesson with a sound spanking.

After another minute, Peter stopped and again gently ran his hand over Neal's bottom to lessen the sting. Peter had hated it when his dad took these small breaks in the middle of the spanking to lecture him or drive a point home. He realized now, as the spanker, why his father had done it. It gave him a second to rest his hand-which he'd never admit to Neal, but it _stung!_-and, by allowing Neal a second to collect himself, Peter could shift Neal's attention away from his panicked struggling against the pain and redirect his focus back to the reason he was getting a spanking (and how to avoid one in the future).

Peter's hands were so big, and Neal was so skinny, that he could nearly cover a cheek with his hand. After Neal's breathing slowed and he lay still over his lap, indicating to Peter that the pain was at a manageable level, Peter tapped Neal's cheek. He felt Neal's whole body tense.

"How many times did you disobey my instructions today?"

Neal pleaded, "I won't do it again! I learned my lesson, Peter!" Peter rolled his eyes and cracked his open palm against Neal's poor bottom.

"That's not what I asked."

Neal was stubbornly silent, determined not to answer and thus earn himself more swats, so Peter slapped his bottom again.

"Okay! I left the van. And then I went to talk to Ammon anyway." Peter nodded, satisfied that Neal knew exactly what incident Peter was about to address.

"Probably more than those two times, because I sent you a ton of text messages and called who knows how many times…" He smiled when he felt Neal struggle against his observation. "But we'll just count two, for today. So, this is for the second time you disobeyed me."

And with that, Peter lifted his arm and began to lay into Neal's bottom for the third time.

It only took a few swats before Neal was again struggling and pleading. Peter didn't stop though, and in no time at all Neal again had tears running down his face. It was a testament to the amount of fire Peter had put into his bottom that Neal didn't even consider the ignominy of Peter seeing him cry like a little boy.

"Please, Peter, please!" Neal gasped out promises to "never disobey again!" and assurances that he was "really sorry!"

Peter scolded Neal as his hand continued to turn Neal's red bottom shades darker, "I am tired of you ignoring my instructions. Tired of you getting yourself in trouble. You could've been seriously hurt today! No more! Do you understand me, Neal! No more!"

After another minute, Neal quit struggling, and just slumped over Peter's lap, tears running down his face. Peter immediately stopped, and rubbed Neal's back as he calmed down. He pulled Neal's boxers back up over his bottom. Neal tensed as the fabric touched his red and tender backside. It was then that he realized Peter wasn't spanking him anymore. He struggled to control his breathing, but it still came in fits and gasps. He rubbed his eyes, embarrassed now at the tears that were still falling.

Peter gently scooped Neal up and deposited him on the couch next to him-for an old man, Peter was very physically fit and was able to move the young man around without much effort. He held Neal close, his arm around Neal's shaking shoulders. Peter twisted around, so that he could pull Neal tight against his chest in a comforting embrace. Neal tucked his face against Peter's neck. His breath came in little gasps as he struggled to stop crying.

"I'm sorry, Peter." Neal whimpered into Peter's chest. He clutched at his bottom until Peter gently smacked the back of his hands.

"I know it stings, but that's part of getting a spanking," he admonished. Neal sniffled and tucked his hands between Peter's chest and his.

Peter rubbed Neal's back. "I forgive you, Neal." He held Neal until his breathing slowed and the tears stopped.

Peter held him for a moment longer, until he was sure Neal was calm again. "Okay. You want to get dressed now?" Peter walked to the kitchen to give Neal some semblance of privacy. He sat down at the table and fiddled with the calligraphy set. Neal walked up to him and stood quietly at his side, miserable and dejected. Peter had to suppress a smile—he'd never seen Neal look so disheveled. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned and not fully tucked in. He seemed to radiate timidity and insecurity. Peter felt a stab of guilt that he did this to his ebullient and high-spirited Neal. He knew, intellectually, that this was just Neal recovering from an emotional spanking, but Peter still felt responsible.

Peter remembered his own childhood spankings. His father had a small routine to help reassure Peter that he was forgiven and that everything was okay between them. Peter remembered that his father held him until he finished crying, and then would send him to go wash his face. Afterward they would sit on the couch, his father's arm around him, and share a drink of chocolate milk. After that small routine Peter knew the discipline was over, and he was forgiven. He realized with a sudden start that Neal needed to know those same things: he was forgiven, Peter wasn't still angry, the punishment was finished. Neal had no way of knowing that there wouldn't be other repercussions for his actions. He thought that Neal might especially be worried that Peter was going to abandon him, because going back to jail was a fear he'd vocalized before the spanking started. Peter, however, was unsure how to go about alleviating Neal's fears.

Peter looked at Neal, who was still standing, subdued, by his side. He seemed to be waiting on Peter to give him direction.

After a few seconds of thought, Peter asked, "Neal, did you eat dinner before I came over?"

"No, Peter. Sir." Neal's voice was quiet and unsure.

"Why don't you go take a shower and put on some comfortable pajamas, and I'll reheat something you've got in the fridge or go pick up some take-out?"

Neal shrugged and looked down at his feet. "Okay. Don Antonio's pizza is really good. They'll deliver."

Peter stood up and placed his hands on Neal's shoulders. "Hey. I forgive you. I love you. I'm not going to abandon you or send you back to prison. I don't want to see you hurt. Okay?"

When Neal finally looked up at Peter, his lips were quirked in a small grin. "Well, did anyone explain to you that spankings really hurt?"

Peter rolled his eyes and pulled Neal in for a quick hug, and then spun him around so he was facing the bathroom. "Go shower and get ready for bed, son. I'll get dinner." Peter gave his bottom a quick, and gentle, swat.

"Okay! I'm going." Neal scampered out of Peter's reach.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Okay guys, I'm nervous for all sorts of reasons in posting this chapter...constructive feedback is welcome! There will be one chapter after this one-an epilogue. I'll get it posted soon, I promise! Before the weekend has ended.


	11. In which Neal realizes he has a father

By the time Neal emerged from the shower, clad in dark green flannel pants and with a little more of his dignity intact, Peter had managed to properly restow all of the tiny calligraphy pen pieces back in their box. The pizza had also arrived, and Peter had set the table. He was in the middle of cracking open a beer for himself when he realized Neal was waiting, silently, at the threshold. Peter motioned for Neal to have a seat while he grabbed a glass and put some ice and water in it.

Neal gingerly sat down, and watched as Peter brought the drinks to the table. Neal took a piece of pizza, and waited for Peter to sit down and take a bite before he started to eat as well. After a few moments of quiet munching, Peter finally spoke. "Is there anything you wanted to talk about?" Peter took a bite of pizza and waited. He was expecting Neal to ask questions about the possibility of getting spanked again in the future, so the deer-in-the-headlights look on Neal's face caused Peter to wrinkle his eyebrows in concern.

Neal swallowed and shook his head "no." Peter watched Neal carefully. He took a swig of his beer and asked, "Well, I want to make sure you're okay-that we're okay." He waited for Neal to respond, but when he stayed quiet, Peter added, "Maybe talk about what's going to happen next time you disobey me and get yourself in a dangerous situation like you did today."

Well, that got a response out of Neal. He frantically shook his head "no," and set down his slice of pizza. "I won't."

Peter struggled not to smile at Neal's earnestness. No doubt his bottom was still a little sore. Peter observed, "You said you wanted consequences to the boundaries I've already given you. Do you think that this spanking did that?"

Neal was silent. He picked up his glass and took a drink of water while stalling for time. He finally admitted, "Yeah. I think spanking worked. I won't be disobeying your instructions anytime soon. I mean, I didn't like it, Peter. I didn't like it, at all."

Peter smiled and said wryly, "No. You're not supposed to like it." The conversation grew silent while they ate more of their pizza.

Neal finally asked, nervously, "So, did my answer mean you're going to spank me again?"

"Only if you agree to it; this won't work unless we both want it to work." Peter watched Neal carefully.

Neal was quiet for a long minute while he deliberated everything that led up to him getting a spanking: the conversations with Peter over the past few days, his penchant for trouble, his concerns and fears about being sent back to prison, his desires for reformation. He deliberated on the spanking Peter just gave him-despite the unpleasantness of the whole ordeal, he had felt safe and respected. He had to admit that his spanking was justified and that Peter had given him a fair punishment. Neal finally spoke just one word, "Yes."

Peter nodded, relieved that even after a spanking Neal would still agree that he needed Peter's boundaries in his life. "I feel like this whole situation is a bit of a learning curve for both of us. I think we should maybe discuss those boundaries again. We need to make sure we're on the same page."

"Okay, well, let me tell you the boundaries I'm sure about from today." Neal's tone was slightly sarcastic. He held up fingers as he listed, "One. No hiding dangerous things from you. Two. No doing something after you tell me no." Neal paused for a second and added, "Am I missing anything?"

Peter finished his beer and leaned back in the chair, thoughtful. He gave careful consideration to all the problems in their working relationship and trying to determine how best to fix them, and to prevent future conflict between them. And also, Peter worried about tamping down on Neal's zest. He didn't want to foist too many restrictions and rules on him. He finally said, "I think there are only three. Those two, and 'No lying.'"

Neal held up a third finger and echoed, "No lying."

"Neal, that includes lying by omission. You can't give me a half truth in order to conceal information from me." Peter's tone held a warning. He knew Neal's penchant for misdirection. "In fact, by 'no lying' I mean 'no intentionally deceiving me in any way.'"

Neal gave Peter an exasperated look. "You can't be serious."

"Absolutely. No lying. No deception, period. Neal. I mean it. If I catch you trying to pull the wool over my eyes..." Peter let the threat hang in air, unspoken.

Neal shook his head, sensing this new rule was going to be impossible to follow. He didn't want to agree to it. "What if I have a really good reason? What if El tells me to keep something from you?" He took a sip of his water, and wondered if he was allowed open a bottle of wine. He was still unsure of how his standing with Peter, so he didn't want to ask.

Peter sighed and tried to figure out how to communicate to Neal why honesty was so important to him. He knew Neal chalked it up to "one of those Suit things" and since he was a criminal who built his entire life on deceit and lies, it was like they were speaking two different languages. "Do you trust me, Neal?"

"I guess." Neal shrugged and took a bite of his pizza. He clarified, "I trust you to an extent. There are things I can't tell you because I know what you'll do."

Peter raised his eyebrows and asked, "Do you trust me to do what's best for you?"

"I think we have different ideas of what's best for me." Neal replied, carefully. He wasn't sure where this conversation was headed, and Peter was making him nervous. He finished his pizza slice in two large bites, and asked cautiously, "I mean...if I showed you some stolen goods, would you spank me, or arrest me? I know you wouldn't let it go."

Peter thought about Neal's question, very seriously. He finally answered, "I would rather know you had done something illegal, than you lie to me about it. We can figure out how to salvage the situation and what the consequences should be, together."

Neal crossed his arms, "So, what's that mean?"

"It means I want honesty between us. I want to be able to trust you. I want you to trust me, too."

"Then I guess we're at an impasse, because I'm not going to willingly tell you about something if I know how you'll react to it." Neal's voice carried a hint of anger. He didn't think it was fair that Peter could demand he essentially tell on himself.

Exasperated, Peter retorted, "Well, that doesn't change the fact that if you lie to me and I find out about it, I'm going to spank you." Neal immediately clamped his mouth shut, momentary defiance lost in the realization that his bottom was still smarting and that he was arguing with the man who had spanked him not even a half-hour earlier.

Neal shifted uncomfortably at that threat, and mumbled. "Okay."

"So, we're okay, now?" Peter asked. "You know what my expectations of you are, and you know what you can expect from me if you decide to ignore them?"

Neal nodded, still feeling a little subdued.

"And you know that today's incident is over? Forgiven." Peter wanted to reassure Neal.

"You're not still mad?" Neal looked at Peter warily.

"No. I'm not. I was really worried for you today, and I'm glad you're safe. Your intentions were good, Neal. But, I just don't like you disobeying my instructions and putting yourself in harm's way."

Neal fiddled with his pizza crust. "I'm sorry." He didn't like being scolded. He almost rather have Peter yell at him-this gentle disapproval was enough to make him feel ashamed that he had disappointed Peter. Neal felt an growing ball of emotion catch in the back of his throat. He bit his lip and drew in a shaky breath and told himself that he wouldn't cry, not again.

"I forgive you." Peter patted Neal's forearm. Peter was surprised to see that Neal's eyes were watery. Peter had intended to leave after dinner, but decided that Neal wasn't ready to be left alone. He instructed Neal, "If you're done, go brush your teeth, it's time for bed."

"Peter, it's not even nine!" Neal exclaimed incredulously.

"Go brush your teeth." Peter gave Neal a stern look. Defeated, Neal got up and went to the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later. Peter had put the pizza in a ziplock bag and tucked it into the fridge, and was washing the dishes in the sink. Neal picked up a towel and a plate, but Peter shook his head. "Go get in bed. I'll be over in a second."

"You can't really be serious." Neal grumbled, but made his way over to the other side of his loft. He sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed, until he heard Peter shut off the water. He hurriedly lay down, his large eyes trained on Peter as he moved through the house turning off the lights. Peter smiled at Neal's small effort at rebellion and last second attempt at obedience. He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed, unfolded it and pulled it over Neal. He tucked the blanket around Neal's shoulders, and sat down on edge of the bed next to his charge, and absent-mindedly ran his hand over Neal's back, making small circles.

"Neal." Peter waited until he had his full attention.

"Yes?" Neal turned his head to look at Peter.

"Are you okay?"

Neal nodded.

"You know, if you don't think that spankings are going to work, and you don't want to do it anymore, you can tell me, right?"

Neal nodded again, and answered, "I know. But I trust you."

"And you know that I'm not mad at you." Neal nodded, so Peter continued, "And that I care about you, and I don't want to see you hurt, and I love you?"

Neal whispered, "Really?"

Peter smoothed Neal's dark hair off his forehead. "Yes. Really, son."

"'kay." Neal's voice was quiet. He felt tears well up at Peter's words, so he buried his face in his pillow. Peter gently ran his hand over the back of Neal's head, smoothing his hair a few more times, before returning to rubbing his back.

Neal tried to control his breathing, because he was a little embarrassed tears were leaking out of his eyes. However, he was so emotionally spent and Peter's words and kind touch had hit a nerve that he didn't even know was raw and sensitive. Peter didn't say anything else, but just kept rubbing Neal's back.

It wasn't long before Neal had quietly cried himself out and was drifting off to sleep. He was vaguely aware of Peter leaning down and placing a kiss on the back of his head. He didn't want to open his eyes and verify he was dreaming when he heard Peter say, "I love you, son."

Peter wasn't sure if Neal was asleep, or not, but the tears had stopped, the breathing had evened out, and Peter didn't want to disturb him to verify if he was sleeping. He stood up and said softly, "Good night, Neal."

Peter quietly let himself out of the apartment, and slumped against the door. He honestly had no idea that Neal's insecurities were so strong-Neal was always so confident. It had completely caught him by surprise that Neal would cry over being told that Peter loved him. He was suddenly worried that he wasn't going to be able to provide the consistency, reassurances, and discipline that Neal seemed to need so badly. He was certain though that after tonight spanking Neal had been the right choice. Neal had desperately wanted a father, a real father, and Peter was more than happy to have a son. They were going to be okay. And, Peter was hopeful that the threat of another spanking would keep Neal out of trouble-for a few months at least.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Thank you lovely readers for the wonderful feedback. I am glad so many of you enjoyed this story. I'm working on a few more White Collar fics. I want to do both some cannon-compliant gen stories to examine Neal's backstory, and also write another paternal!Peter, spanked!Neal story...I've got enough plot bunnies roaming around in my head to keep me busy for a while. Thank you for the feedback and encouragement. You have a wonderful day!

Kiss, kiss!

n1h1l4dr3m


	12. An epilogue: in which Peter sees trouble

Peter walked down the stairwell in June's house. His phone beeped, and he realized he had a text message from Jones. "You might want to come into the office. Got some evidence you should see."

Peter sighed, texted Jones that he was on his way, and then called his wife.

"Hon, I'm gonna be another hour or two. I need to go back to the office." He could practically hear the irritation in El's voice, even though he doubted anyone else would be able to pick out her frustration with his late hours.

"All right. I'll be here, hon." El sighed and got up to dump Peter's food into Satchmo's bowl. Peter told his wife goodbye, and vowed to bring her flowers, or something, tomorrow at lunch.

It was a quick drive to work. Peter walked into the almost-empty bullpen. Despite the text-summons into work, he was surprised to see the lights were on and that Jones still working. At this hour, especially after such a high-profile case, he expected the office to be entirely empty. "What are you working on, Jones?"

"Ah, nothing much, boss. Something just doesn't seem right about this whole thing. I'll show you." Jones shrugged and tossed a stack of eyewitness testimonies onto the table. "Have you reviewed the footage from the take-down?" Peter shook his head no, and sat down at the large conference room desk.

Jones thumbed through an index and then consulted the pile of boxes. He found the corresponding box and retrieved two DVDs. "Here." He slid them down the table to his boss.

"Thanks." Peter popped one into the computer and fiddled with the projector. After a few seconds he saw Neal standing at the subway with his phone pressed to his ear. He pressed fast-forward and amidst all the high-speed traffic he saw Ammon's taxi arrive. He hit play and watched as he and Neal exchanged words, and then the FBI agent arrest Ammon. Jones grabbed the remote and rewound the segment and played it back, this time in slow-speed. He watched as Ammon slipped something into Neal's pocket.

"Boss. You see that?" Jones hit pause.

"Yeah. What was it? Rewind the clip again." Jones obliged Peter. They both watched Ammon and Neal move in slow-motion.

"I don't know. Could be a key, or thumb drive, or a folded piece of paper." Jones shrugged.

"God dammit." Peter heaved a sigh of frustration and popped the disc out. "I'm gonna load this onto my computer so I can refile the disc, and then I'm done for the night."

Jones nodded and returned to the evidence spread out on the table.


End file.
